Finally, I've got a partner in playing cultural catch-up.
We'd knocked off "Easy Rider" a couple of months ago and tonight, after a meal in service of my hired mouth, we made a bee line for the Byrd to take in the romantic and sexual wisdom circa 1969 of "The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie."
Walking into the lobby, the manager called out a greeting to me and I reluctantly admitted that I'd never seen the film. "What? Maggie Smith won an Academy award for this role!" he said accusingly.
But it was my own fault for saying it out loud, especially after my date and I had agreed to keep our cultural shortcomings to ourselves. No need to advertise our cinematic ignorance.
Because the new seats still haven't been installed at the Byrd, side seating is the only option given that the center section is still nothing but a big concrete slab. We thought it was just ugly, but it also turned out to be a massive hard surface for the film's sound to bounce off of, problematic when Dame Maggie Smith began speaking shrilly in a Scottish brogue.
Or maybe that's just a middle-aged auditory problem.
So while I knew absolutely nothing about the film, I had read Muriel Spark's novel from which it came and I immediately recognized the theme song "Jean" that played over the opening shot of Miss Brodie riding her bike to the exclusive girls' school where she teaches.
Granted, I knew the Top 40 version by Oliver and not the Rod McKuen-sung movie version, although we chuckled over the unlikelihood of hearing another Rod McKuen-penned song two days after we'd heard another one.
We're just praying no one makes it a trifecta by playing "Joanathn Livingston Seagull" for us anytime soon.
It wasn't hard to see why Dame Maggie had won the Oscar with her portrayal of a modern woman (in 1969, that apparently meant she'd slept with two men, neither of whom she was married to) determined to teach her girls more than just sums and the succession of the Stuarts.
And really, every young girl could use a teacher who instills a mantra of following your heart and never losing your youthful idealism. That she also heralded the brilliance of Mussolini and Franco to them was considerably less desirable, but understandable given the era depicted: 1932.
But what especially resonated with me was her insistence to her students and friends that she was in her prime. Smith was only 35 when she made the film, although it was suggested by her lover in the film that she was well past her prime.
Hold it right there.
I wouldn't think that being in one's prime should be something decided by others. Who knows better than yourself when you're in your prime?
When I was in my mid-forties, the publisher I worked for me told me more than once that he thought I was just reaching my prime physically and professionally. I recall agreeing that I was just hitting my stride in a number of ways.
Yet by conventional assessments, an argument could have been made that I was well past my prime. Potatoes, po-tahtoes, prime is a matter of self-determination, no?
The film was notable, too, for the dozens of casually tossed off lines that Smith delivered, many of them coming so quickly on the heels of others that it was almost impossible to catch them all.
When Miss Brodie gets a request from the headmistress to report to her office, she's told to be there at 4:15. "Not 4, not 4:30, but 4:15. Hmm, she thinks to intimidate me by the use of quarter hours?" Hilarious.
And there were so many more.How about, "Six inches is perfectly adequate! More is vulgar!" Or, "I do not intend to devote my prime to petrification!" Amen, sister.
But the main thing "The Prime of Miss Jean Brodie" did for me was galvanize my desire to curate a late '60s/early '70s film festival focusing on films that were trying to sort out the new world order as the sexual revolution took hold.
I'm talking about films such as "Carnal Knowledge," "Bob and Carol and Ted and Alice," "Myra Breckinridge" and "Midnight Cowboy." I'm inclined to think such films were instrumental in introducing middle America to a whole lot of new possibilities and it would be fascinating to see them with 21st century eyes.
So while I may or may not be in my prime, I do agree heartily with Miss Brodie that there's no contradiction in being both ridiculous and magnificent.
And any smart man worth his salt can easily spot a woman in her prime. Among other things, she's the one not intimidated by the use of quarter hours.
Thursday, September 7, 2017
Wednesday, September 6, 2017
Summer People
It's like the dome of post-summer/autumn/back to school responsibility has been lowered over the city.
At 8 1/2, we walked into an empty restaurant, where just a few weeks ago, there would have been an eager crowd looking to score takeout before heading to the park for music. We ordered our hoagies, sat down at one of the empty tables and waited for my date's name to be called.
I'm not going to lie, it was a little bit eerie being in 8 1/2 on a beautiful Tuesday evening an hour before sunset and not encountering a mob scene. The oddness continued in the nearby park where exactly three people sat: a couple eating at a table and a woman on a bench alternating between a book and her phone.
Where were all the usual suspects?
My guess was that they all were laboring under the misconception that the live music ended at the same moment when white shoes and clothing became verboten: Labor Day. Because no one mentioned anything about the music stopping come September.
You know what they say about presuming.
We ate our hoagies, Italian and turkey, accompanied by Cherrier "Les Chailloux" Sancerre Rose on a bench, while singer/banjo/guitar player Kia Cavallaro got set up, a little girl in a smocked dress did interpretive dance and the wind picked up, causing the massive wind chimes on the power pole to commence ringing
For that matter, we bantered about how soul satisfying the sub rolls we were eating were. Neither of us could imagine being friends with anyone who didn't worship at the altar of these rolls.
When the flies arrived en massse (another stark difference to previous nights in the park), I saved the day by wiping mayonnaise dribbles from my sub with a wad of paper napkins and laying said wad on the ground for them to feast on.
In moments, the white napkins were covered in dozens of flies. Gross, certainly; effective, absolutely.
Once replete, the whole mess went in the Supercans and suddenly nary a fly had any interest in us or our Rose. Even so, we switched benches once the book/phone reader vacated hers, mainly for the better view it afforded.
Because tonight's crowd was small and because so many of them were tardy, the show kicked off late and only after organizer Patrick reminded everyone yet again the formula for when the show begins. If you can use your device for good - to research when the sun goes down - and count back 15 minutes, you can figure it out pretty easily.
We looked up from our fruit course of grapes and clementines to see friends with whom we'd been at the beach in July, so of course they spread their blanket next to our bench shortly before the set began.
Hearing a fretless banjo accompanying Kia's distinctive little girl voice would have been pleasure enough, but several of her songs were in French and I'm an absolute sucker for lyrics I can't understand.
Coupled with air that registered as Goldilocks just right (not too hot, not too cold) and a soft breeze, it was a glorious night for live music in a park. The thing is, there are weeks of outdoor music coming for those who haven't given up on life simply because Labor Day has come and gone.
That said, it was going on dark and a huge yellow moon was making its way up in the sky when we returned to the car after the show ended at 8:15. Shoot, it wasn't that long ago that the shows were starting at 8:15.
Every Summer has its own story and with mine still unfolding, I could put off Fall indefinitely. That, or accept that Summer is a state of mind.
But live under the dome of post-summer/autumn/back to school responsibility? Never.
At 8 1/2, we walked into an empty restaurant, where just a few weeks ago, there would have been an eager crowd looking to score takeout before heading to the park for music. We ordered our hoagies, sat down at one of the empty tables and waited for my date's name to be called.
I'm not going to lie, it was a little bit eerie being in 8 1/2 on a beautiful Tuesday evening an hour before sunset and not encountering a mob scene. The oddness continued in the nearby park where exactly three people sat: a couple eating at a table and a woman on a bench alternating between a book and her phone.
Where were all the usual suspects?
My guess was that they all were laboring under the misconception that the live music ended at the same moment when white shoes and clothing became verboten: Labor Day. Because no one mentioned anything about the music stopping come September.
You know what they say about presuming.
We ate our hoagies, Italian and turkey, accompanied by Cherrier "Les Chailloux" Sancerre Rose on a bench, while singer/banjo/guitar player Kia Cavallaro got set up, a little girl in a smocked dress did interpretive dance and the wind picked up, causing the massive wind chimes on the power pole to commence ringing
For that matter, we bantered about how soul satisfying the sub rolls we were eating were. Neither of us could imagine being friends with anyone who didn't worship at the altar of these rolls.
When the flies arrived en massse (another stark difference to previous nights in the park), I saved the day by wiping mayonnaise dribbles from my sub with a wad of paper napkins and laying said wad on the ground for them to feast on.
In moments, the white napkins were covered in dozens of flies. Gross, certainly; effective, absolutely.
Once replete, the whole mess went in the Supercans and suddenly nary a fly had any interest in us or our Rose. Even so, we switched benches once the book/phone reader vacated hers, mainly for the better view it afforded.
Because tonight's crowd was small and because so many of them were tardy, the show kicked off late and only after organizer Patrick reminded everyone yet again the formula for when the show begins. If you can use your device for good - to research when the sun goes down - and count back 15 minutes, you can figure it out pretty easily.
We looked up from our fruit course of grapes and clementines to see friends with whom we'd been at the beach in July, so of course they spread their blanket next to our bench shortly before the set began.
Hearing a fretless banjo accompanying Kia's distinctive little girl voice would have been pleasure enough, but several of her songs were in French and I'm an absolute sucker for lyrics I can't understand.
Coupled with air that registered as Goldilocks just right (not too hot, not too cold) and a soft breeze, it was a glorious night for live music in a park. The thing is, there are weeks of outdoor music coming for those who haven't given up on life simply because Labor Day has come and gone.
That said, it was going on dark and a huge yellow moon was making its way up in the sky when we returned to the car after the show ended at 8:15. Shoot, it wasn't that long ago that the shows were starting at 8:15.
Every Summer has its own story and with mine still unfolding, I could put off Fall indefinitely. That, or accept that Summer is a state of mind.
But live under the dome of post-summer/autumn/back to school responsibility? Never.
Tuesday, September 5, 2017
Seasons in the Sun
No one wants to start the day hearing that someone you know has died.
Not someone young, not someone unfailingly kind to you, not someone with a good attitude and quick sense of humor. But especially not someone young.
Although I hadn't seen her in three weeks, her last email to me was about getting together. "My love, we shall hang," she'd written after offering some relationship advice. As recently as Thursday, I'd messaged a mutual friend about making a date for the three of us to do just that. Saturday, she was gone.
I know life's not fair, but that's a hell of a reminder of it.
The rest of Sunday - the filling of the Labor Day sandwich - stretched out in front of me without a single commitment beyond a phone call.
First up was a walk to Scott's Addition along Broad Street, where I was treated to doughnut samples on a stick from an affable employee of a new doughnut shop poised to open. When I couldn't decide between chocolate with caramel and chocolate with jimmies, he insisted I take both. Done.
I was nothing short of amazed once I got to Scott's Addition because the streets were abuzz with people despite it being noonish on a Sunday during a holiday weekend. Apparently if you were still in town, you were there.
In a related note, when I overheard a young couple whining about there being an hour and a half wait at Supper, I wanted to shake them and point out that any open place in Richmond with a patio was bound to be mobbed on a gloriously sunny day smack dab in the middle of a holiday weekend.
Walking past a 4-unit apartment building, a guy came out and calls, "Where have you been?" as if he knows me.
Turns out we'd met years ago when I used to walk Grace Street and he'd been rehabbing an apartment building over there. Now he's elbows deep in the rehab of two buildings across the street from Supper that are bound to be snapped up the moment they're listed. I admire the business acumen of the decision, but no thanks.
Seems I'm one of the few for whom Scott's Addition holds no allure.
But back to the man in front of me with a clear recollection of our conversations circa 2011, it never ceases to amaze me that people recall a random walking woman when she's completely out of context. And I thought I had a good memory.
Blue Bee Cider was already crowded when I walked in to score lunch from the Nate's Bagels pop-up. Nate was impressed when I told him I'd walked 2.2 miles for one of his bagels, but it didn't help me score an everything bagel because they'd already sold out half an hour into the pop-up, if that tells you the power of the everything.
All I can say is, come on 2018, which is when his shop is expected to open and hopefully the supply of everything bagels will be endless.
My afternoon was given over to talking to my best friend in San Antonio for 2 1/4 hours, an almost sufficient period to cover all the relevant topics after months without a phone call. Still, no matter how much time passes between calls, we pick up where we left off, as if we'd spoken yesterday.
I may not have met the love of my life and married him when I was a 20-something like my parents did and preach (I'd heard that talk again from Dad just the other day), but instead I met the best friend of my life when I was not even 20 and that's just as big a gift.
My evening's plans didn't even start until 9 when my presence was requested for an extended record listening party - including my introduction to session guitarist extraordinaire Chris Spedding - with the windows, doors and a bottle of Chateau d'Esclans Whispering Angel Rose open, all enjoyed with friends just returned from a weekend in Annapolis.
Driving home just after 1 a.m., I spotted a fair number of students still milling about on the sidewalks and arrived home to a raging party with a fire pit going at the house next door. It was certainly the perfect night for it.
Monday dawned just as gorgeous, a good thing since post-walk, my day revolved around an all day/night party celebrating the one year anniversary of Laura Lee's in the sylvan-like backyard of my walking companion.
He'd staged a collection of benches, gliders and chairs in a huge circle around a fire pit, while various tables and chairs had been set up under trees, along walkways and in every grassy corner. First-timers understandably got enthused about the treehouse, but personally, I think the yard's greatest strength is the recently-added outdoor shower.
When someone asked what had inspired him to build it, I don't want to brag but he admitted it that it had its roots in two trips to the beach this summer at cottages boasting the same. Hey, I can lead a man to my favorite outdoor shower, but what he does with that knowledge is up to him.
The party was a rambling affair with people I mostly knew arriving from 2 until 7 and lingering until nearly midnight.
There was the friend who'd brought her "pool carafe," neatly labeled "California Cabernet," and so called because it was plastic and allowed at the "criminal pool" she frequents. Only now do I know where said pool is located.
One of my favorite girl crushes arrived and proceeded to get back at me for all the times I've razzed her about when she first met her husband by teasing me about my date's solicitous behavior, although she was quick to shut up when he returned.
I used the superior fire-making skills my Dad installed in me and my five sisters by collecting tinder around the yard and stoking the fire as dusk settled in.
Then I got comfortable on the glider and chatted with the neighbor/reporter who'd just arrived. When I had to go inside to use the facilities, I asked him to save my seat and I returned to find that he'd put his hat on it to reserve it. Such a gentleman.
The UR prof showed up late and sat down next to me to ask for recommendations of where to breakfast around town, while I wanted to hear how his move was going.
Eventually, one of the guests asked to borrow a guitar from the extensive collection in the music room and sat down in a nearby chair to play. Almost at once, a young woman looking like she wandered out of Woodstock - cropped top, long skirt, flowing straight blond hair - took the chair beside him to provide harmonies.
They started with Jacques Briel's "Le Moribond," immediately recognized by my date as "Seasons in the Sun," a trite 1974 song with English lyrics by Rod McKuen. Needless to say, I liked it much better sung in French.
Also winningly covered was Nilsson's "Everybody's Talking at Me," and that's a song you could go your whole life without hearing live, so I gave major props to the duo for reaching way back.
His was a wide range of songs - the Beatles to Air to the Cranberries - and when someone suggested a Steely Dan song in honor of Walter Becker's death, he tried to oblige with lyrics but couldn't quite recall all the chords so my date called them out for him.
Now that's what you call community music-making.
The moon came out so big and bright that the tiki torches were superfluous (except for neo-Nazi jokes) and the twinkle lights mere ornamentation. Eventually, Ubers and Lyfts were called and people began to drift out into the night.
Driving home at 2 a.m. was like driving through a movie set with almost no one on the street. With Labor Day officially over (and the first day of school looming for many), Richmond was tucked in tight.
It's funny, before I'd left for the party, I'd spotted a 3" wide pile of sand on my kitchen rug. I hadn't noticed it before, but it had to be from the eclipse day beach trip two weeks ago. Shaking out the sand over the balcony felt like a metaphor.
It's symbolic, right? Labor Day means the technical end of summer fun and refocusing on real life. Balderdash. As long as the weather stays nice, I'll milk it for as long as I can.
Oh, my life is changing every day
In every possible way
And, oh, my dreams, it's never quite as it seems
Never quite as it seems
It's been a pretty swell 90 days, if I do say so myself. Summer is my season.
Not someone young, not someone unfailingly kind to you, not someone with a good attitude and quick sense of humor. But especially not someone young.
Although I hadn't seen her in three weeks, her last email to me was about getting together. "My love, we shall hang," she'd written after offering some relationship advice. As recently as Thursday, I'd messaged a mutual friend about making a date for the three of us to do just that. Saturday, she was gone.
I know life's not fair, but that's a hell of a reminder of it.
The rest of Sunday - the filling of the Labor Day sandwich - stretched out in front of me without a single commitment beyond a phone call.
First up was a walk to Scott's Addition along Broad Street, where I was treated to doughnut samples on a stick from an affable employee of a new doughnut shop poised to open. When I couldn't decide between chocolate with caramel and chocolate with jimmies, he insisted I take both. Done.
I was nothing short of amazed once I got to Scott's Addition because the streets were abuzz with people despite it being noonish on a Sunday during a holiday weekend. Apparently if you were still in town, you were there.
In a related note, when I overheard a young couple whining about there being an hour and a half wait at Supper, I wanted to shake them and point out that any open place in Richmond with a patio was bound to be mobbed on a gloriously sunny day smack dab in the middle of a holiday weekend.
Walking past a 4-unit apartment building, a guy came out and calls, "Where have you been?" as if he knows me.
Turns out we'd met years ago when I used to walk Grace Street and he'd been rehabbing an apartment building over there. Now he's elbows deep in the rehab of two buildings across the street from Supper that are bound to be snapped up the moment they're listed. I admire the business acumen of the decision, but no thanks.
Seems I'm one of the few for whom Scott's Addition holds no allure.
But back to the man in front of me with a clear recollection of our conversations circa 2011, it never ceases to amaze me that people recall a random walking woman when she's completely out of context. And I thought I had a good memory.
Blue Bee Cider was already crowded when I walked in to score lunch from the Nate's Bagels pop-up. Nate was impressed when I told him I'd walked 2.2 miles for one of his bagels, but it didn't help me score an everything bagel because they'd already sold out half an hour into the pop-up, if that tells you the power of the everything.
All I can say is, come on 2018, which is when his shop is expected to open and hopefully the supply of everything bagels will be endless.
My afternoon was given over to talking to my best friend in San Antonio for 2 1/4 hours, an almost sufficient period to cover all the relevant topics after months without a phone call. Still, no matter how much time passes between calls, we pick up where we left off, as if we'd spoken yesterday.
I may not have met the love of my life and married him when I was a 20-something like my parents did and preach (I'd heard that talk again from Dad just the other day), but instead I met the best friend of my life when I was not even 20 and that's just as big a gift.
My evening's plans didn't even start until 9 when my presence was requested for an extended record listening party - including my introduction to session guitarist extraordinaire Chris Spedding - with the windows, doors and a bottle of Chateau d'Esclans Whispering Angel Rose open, all enjoyed with friends just returned from a weekend in Annapolis.
Driving home just after 1 a.m., I spotted a fair number of students still milling about on the sidewalks and arrived home to a raging party with a fire pit going at the house next door. It was certainly the perfect night for it.
Monday dawned just as gorgeous, a good thing since post-walk, my day revolved around an all day/night party celebrating the one year anniversary of Laura Lee's in the sylvan-like backyard of my walking companion.
He'd staged a collection of benches, gliders and chairs in a huge circle around a fire pit, while various tables and chairs had been set up under trees, along walkways and in every grassy corner. First-timers understandably got enthused about the treehouse, but personally, I think the yard's greatest strength is the recently-added outdoor shower.
When someone asked what had inspired him to build it, I don't want to brag but he admitted it that it had its roots in two trips to the beach this summer at cottages boasting the same. Hey, I can lead a man to my favorite outdoor shower, but what he does with that knowledge is up to him.
The party was a rambling affair with people I mostly knew arriving from 2 until 7 and lingering until nearly midnight.
There was the friend who'd brought her "pool carafe," neatly labeled "California Cabernet," and so called because it was plastic and allowed at the "criminal pool" she frequents. Only now do I know where said pool is located.
One of my favorite girl crushes arrived and proceeded to get back at me for all the times I've razzed her about when she first met her husband by teasing me about my date's solicitous behavior, although she was quick to shut up when he returned.
I used the superior fire-making skills my Dad installed in me and my five sisters by collecting tinder around the yard and stoking the fire as dusk settled in.
Then I got comfortable on the glider and chatted with the neighbor/reporter who'd just arrived. When I had to go inside to use the facilities, I asked him to save my seat and I returned to find that he'd put his hat on it to reserve it. Such a gentleman.
The UR prof showed up late and sat down next to me to ask for recommendations of where to breakfast around town, while I wanted to hear how his move was going.
Eventually, one of the guests asked to borrow a guitar from the extensive collection in the music room and sat down in a nearby chair to play. Almost at once, a young woman looking like she wandered out of Woodstock - cropped top, long skirt, flowing straight blond hair - took the chair beside him to provide harmonies.
They started with Jacques Briel's "Le Moribond," immediately recognized by my date as "Seasons in the Sun," a trite 1974 song with English lyrics by Rod McKuen. Needless to say, I liked it much better sung in French.
Also winningly covered was Nilsson's "Everybody's Talking at Me," and that's a song you could go your whole life without hearing live, so I gave major props to the duo for reaching way back.
His was a wide range of songs - the Beatles to Air to the Cranberries - and when someone suggested a Steely Dan song in honor of Walter Becker's death, he tried to oblige with lyrics but couldn't quite recall all the chords so my date called them out for him.
Now that's what you call community music-making.
The moon came out so big and bright that the tiki torches were superfluous (except for neo-Nazi jokes) and the twinkle lights mere ornamentation. Eventually, Ubers and Lyfts were called and people began to drift out into the night.
Driving home at 2 a.m. was like driving through a movie set with almost no one on the street. With Labor Day officially over (and the first day of school looming for many), Richmond was tucked in tight.
It's funny, before I'd left for the party, I'd spotted a 3" wide pile of sand on my kitchen rug. I hadn't noticed it before, but it had to be from the eclipse day beach trip two weeks ago. Shaking out the sand over the balcony felt like a metaphor.
It's symbolic, right? Labor Day means the technical end of summer fun and refocusing on real life. Balderdash. As long as the weather stays nice, I'll milk it for as long as I can.
Oh, my life is changing every day
In every possible way
And, oh, my dreams, it's never quite as it seems
Never quite as it seems
It's been a pretty swell 90 days, if I do say so myself. Summer is my season.
Sunday, September 3, 2017
To Dream the Impossible Dream
On a day when the rain just didn't want to stop, a trip to Spain sounded mighty appealing.
Not Spain the actual country - although I'd happily accept an invitation any time it comes along - but the film "The Trip to Spain," which was playing at Movieland. I'd seen the last in the series, "The Trip to Italy," in 2014, two years after my own first trip to Italy and enjoyed every moment of it.
But Spain, that was fresh territory for me.
My date and I began with glasses of Fazio Aegades Grillo and a record listening party to test his memory and launch tangents. Listening to the Grass Roots' "More Golden Grass" led us to "The Supremes Sing Holland Dozier Holland" when he heard a similar musical phrase ("whoa, whoa, whoa"), which necessitated me demonstrating the same sort of connection I'd heard between a song on the Brass Ring's "Disadvantages of You" and another on "The Association's Greatest Hits."
Nothing is new, kids, we just recycle the riffs of the past and hope no one's paying attention.
Because that kind of musical tangent-following can lead a couple of music nerds down endless rabbit holes while we starved to death, we stepped away from the turntable and made our way to Peter Chang's for dinner.
There were far more families with young children than you might expect on a Saturday night, but we were seated at a table in the bar area far from high chairs.
Since it was my date's first visit to Peter Chang's, he was understandably overwhelmed at the menu, but seemed to have little problem pinpointing a wine we'd both love. Cherrie "Les Chailloux" Sancerre Rose delivered all the textbook charms of a good Sancerre with its clean-tasting grapefruit flavors the color of pink diamonds. The Loire never disappoints.
Bowing to the power of Peter Chang's dry-fried anything, my companion chose dry-fried shredded chicken while I took our server's advice and opted for dry-fried flounder with wood ear mushrooms, potatoes, broccoli, onions and peppers. Naturally, an air-filled scallion bubble pancake accompanied our meals so we could pinch up food and mitigate heat when necessary.
It's such a pleasure to experience Peter Chang's with a first-timer and my date did not disappoint as he rhapsodized over the pancake and accustomed his palate to the spiciness. Our only complaint was that we had to request chopsticks because they weren't automatically offered.
There was no way either of us could finish such enormous servings, though we gave it our best shot as the families moved on and the second wave of Saturday night date couples began taking their places. And while we qualified to stay, we had a movie to catch.
We came in out of the rain into the theater just as two friends - a fellow theater panel member and a former art gallery director working on a new book - did, providing some last minute socializing before finding theater #2.
Although my date hadn't seen either of the first two installments of the series featuring Brits Steve Coogan and Rob Bryden, I felt like I knew him well enough to know how much he'd enjoy the dry humor, middle age ruminations and vocal impressions that are standard in these films.
Me, I go because the movies encompass my interests: travel (with splendid photography of places I'd love to see in person and an introduction to a sleep aboard ferry I can only dream about), food (Bryden is supposedly writing restaurant reviews so we see loads of shots of kitchen prep and sumptuous plus rustic dishes being delivered to their table) and endless brilliantly clever banter.
Their conversations about aging were just icing on the cake.
That so much of the dialog is improvised ensured our interest and attention, in the same way that listening to an erudite and comedic friend riff on life at a party does. What will he say next?
Less than an hour into the film during a quiet moment in dialog, I could hear fireworks outside the theater coming from the Diamond's final fireworks display of the baseball season. Yet another unpleasant reminder that summer is fading and cooler weather looms.
But while we were entertained by conversations about Cervantes and Don Quioxte and seduced by scenes of Spain, its architecture, mountains, monuments and churches - not to mention fabulous seaside restaurants - I forgot all about Richmond and rain.
In fact, scenes of them driving around the countryside instead brought Joni Mitchell's "California" to mind.
So I bought me a ticket
I caught a plane to Spain
Went to a party down a red dirt road
There were lots of pretty people there...
Never have red dirt roads and the red dust clouds that trail vehicles on them looked so appealing. And certainly, never has a rambling discussion that begins with the Moors and segues to Roger Moore been so laugh-out-loud funny.
Probably to no one's surprise, I'm also a fan of tilting at windmills. Whoa, whoa, whoa...
Not Spain the actual country - although I'd happily accept an invitation any time it comes along - but the film "The Trip to Spain," which was playing at Movieland. I'd seen the last in the series, "The Trip to Italy," in 2014, two years after my own first trip to Italy and enjoyed every moment of it.
But Spain, that was fresh territory for me.
My date and I began with glasses of Fazio Aegades Grillo and a record listening party to test his memory and launch tangents. Listening to the Grass Roots' "More Golden Grass" led us to "The Supremes Sing Holland Dozier Holland" when he heard a similar musical phrase ("whoa, whoa, whoa"), which necessitated me demonstrating the same sort of connection I'd heard between a song on the Brass Ring's "Disadvantages of You" and another on "The Association's Greatest Hits."
Nothing is new, kids, we just recycle the riffs of the past and hope no one's paying attention.
Because that kind of musical tangent-following can lead a couple of music nerds down endless rabbit holes while we starved to death, we stepped away from the turntable and made our way to Peter Chang's for dinner.
There were far more families with young children than you might expect on a Saturday night, but we were seated at a table in the bar area far from high chairs.
Since it was my date's first visit to Peter Chang's, he was understandably overwhelmed at the menu, but seemed to have little problem pinpointing a wine we'd both love. Cherrie "Les Chailloux" Sancerre Rose delivered all the textbook charms of a good Sancerre with its clean-tasting grapefruit flavors the color of pink diamonds. The Loire never disappoints.
Bowing to the power of Peter Chang's dry-fried anything, my companion chose dry-fried shredded chicken while I took our server's advice and opted for dry-fried flounder with wood ear mushrooms, potatoes, broccoli, onions and peppers. Naturally, an air-filled scallion bubble pancake accompanied our meals so we could pinch up food and mitigate heat when necessary.
It's such a pleasure to experience Peter Chang's with a first-timer and my date did not disappoint as he rhapsodized over the pancake and accustomed his palate to the spiciness. Our only complaint was that we had to request chopsticks because they weren't automatically offered.
There was no way either of us could finish such enormous servings, though we gave it our best shot as the families moved on and the second wave of Saturday night date couples began taking their places. And while we qualified to stay, we had a movie to catch.
We came in out of the rain into the theater just as two friends - a fellow theater panel member and a former art gallery director working on a new book - did, providing some last minute socializing before finding theater #2.
Although my date hadn't seen either of the first two installments of the series featuring Brits Steve Coogan and Rob Bryden, I felt like I knew him well enough to know how much he'd enjoy the dry humor, middle age ruminations and vocal impressions that are standard in these films.
Me, I go because the movies encompass my interests: travel (with splendid photography of places I'd love to see in person and an introduction to a sleep aboard ferry I can only dream about), food (Bryden is supposedly writing restaurant reviews so we see loads of shots of kitchen prep and sumptuous plus rustic dishes being delivered to their table) and endless brilliantly clever banter.
Their conversations about aging were just icing on the cake.
That so much of the dialog is improvised ensured our interest and attention, in the same way that listening to an erudite and comedic friend riff on life at a party does. What will he say next?
Less than an hour into the film during a quiet moment in dialog, I could hear fireworks outside the theater coming from the Diamond's final fireworks display of the baseball season. Yet another unpleasant reminder that summer is fading and cooler weather looms.
But while we were entertained by conversations about Cervantes and Don Quioxte and seduced by scenes of Spain, its architecture, mountains, monuments and churches - not to mention fabulous seaside restaurants - I forgot all about Richmond and rain.
In fact, scenes of them driving around the countryside instead brought Joni Mitchell's "California" to mind.
So I bought me a ticket
I caught a plane to Spain
Went to a party down a red dirt road
There were lots of pretty people there...
Never have red dirt roads and the red dust clouds that trail vehicles on them looked so appealing. And certainly, never has a rambling discussion that begins with the Moors and segues to Roger Moore been so laugh-out-loud funny.
Probably to no one's surprise, I'm also a fan of tilting at windmills. Whoa, whoa, whoa...
Saturday, September 2, 2017
53rd Place Trophy
So, when did we start celebrating the American labor movement with explosives?
Personally, I just learned about it today while driving to the Northern Neck in the pouring rain. Signs and stands along Route 360 were advertising "Labor Day fireworks!" Huh?
But, as always, it was worth it for my companion and I to spend the day with my parents who never cease to entertain with their pithy political commentary, extensive bird knowledge and hilarious reflections on life.
We had crab melts for lunch, the lump crabmeat from as near as Reedville, and then settled in for hours of conversation while keeping an eye on the non-stop flight patterns of birds incoming for meals at their various feeders despite the continued onslaught of rain.
A couple of tiny hummingbirds were adorable to watch, the sparrows were particularly tenacious in returning and a male cardinal arrived so drenched that the crest on his head was flattened out completely.
From my perch on the wicker settee, I watched as the rain obliterated the land on the far side of the river, making it look like the silvery water met the sky.
For fun, we looked through a massive album full of old photos, ticket stubs, poems and notes that one of my sisters had made for my Dad's 70th birthday. I especially loved the pictures of my parents from the '70s, my Dad with his massive mutton chops and plaid pants with white belt and my Mom in short skirts and hip jewelry.
My groovy parents.
One photo in particular caught my eye because it showed Dad with his six young daughters at the beach in 1969, which led to ribbing about how very fertile Mom had been.
"With three of my daughters, all I had to do was throw my shorts on the bed and she got pregnant," my Dad cracked to uproarious laughter and mild mortification on the part of my companion. Dads will be dads, no?
Of course, once he heard laughter, he couldn't stop himself from going for more, bringing up my, ahem, colorful past and passing judgement on it as only a man who found the love of his life at 23 can. Must be nice to be so lucky that way.
By the time we drove back to Richmond (with only a few minor episodes of hydroplaning, yikes), we had just enough time for a meal in service of my hired mouth before parting ways.
Given that it was already after 7, all I could think was thank goodness you don't have to look good for comedy, so I tidied up and set out (again, this time on foot through massive puddles) in the pouring rain for the Comedy Coalition and some non-Dad humor.
Tonight's show was "What Was I Thinking?" and was based on journal entries from people brave enough to share their adolescent angst.
From her Hello, Kitty locked diary, Kim read several entries from 1997 and 1999 about the posters on her walls, the songs she liked and Anthony, her one true love since 3rd grade, although she was still nervous about fast dancing with him unless there were plenty of people around. Slow dancing, now that was fine.
Life sucks. I might have to move to Cali. I might have scoliosis.
The improv performers wasted no time in riffing on her teen-aged malaise, like using pinhole cameras to avoid eye contact with someone you liked and explaining human vibrators. Best line from a Mom to her daughter: "You're going to be alone because no man is going to want to listen to your music!"
Matt was the next victim willing to bare his journal and, in his case, ephemera for the sake of comedy.
He'd brought posters acquired over time - "You don't get that kind of collection overnight" ("Ace Ventura," Ren & Stimpy, the Road Kill Cafe, Green Day, aliens) - plus the journal he'd begun when he started drinking and writing and a scrapbook of his sports accomplishments (swim team ribbons ranging from 1st place to 23rd place) compiled by - who else? - his Mom.
Your eyes take me too close to a past I'm not ready to look at yet
That mother lode resulted in a bit about his Mom knitting a sweater that incorporated his accomplishments (53rd place in arriving to school on time) and a pair of Converse painted with the names people, including bullies, called him. Another centered on "X Files" and mouth-probing aliens.
Last to sacrifice her dignity on the altar of comedy was Katie with her fuzzy blue leopard spotted journal detailing her first mosh pit at Sauce-a-palooza ("Jeez, it was so spiffy!"), poetry ("Let love come to you. If it doesn't, you don't deserve it." was topped only by "Now and forever, you are an obstetrician. You helped me be born again.") and a list of every cliched '90s CD she absolutely needed (Disturbd, System of a Down, Sublime).
Like Kim's diary entries, Katie's listed every single friend she went places with, even if it was 20 people, sometimes with first and last names and other times with just a first name and last initial, as if to keep their identity secret. Hilarious.
Clinging to you like a pair of wet jeans
Heavy on the wet
No one get deep like a teen-aged girl.
It was some rich material to pull from and the performers mocked high school poetry competitions (one teacher trading a year of overseeing detention to get out of judging the competition) and girls who started thinking marriage after a boy did no more than talk to them, all of which involved ridiculously long lists of friends' names ("Was that Cher B. or Cher M? I think it was Cher C.").
This rainy day turned out to be full of laughs start to finish. They say you have to let comedy come to you and if it doesn't, you don't deserve it.
Hell, I don't mind driving or walking to it if the laughs are good.
Personally, I just learned about it today while driving to the Northern Neck in the pouring rain. Signs and stands along Route 360 were advertising "Labor Day fireworks!" Huh?
But, as always, it was worth it for my companion and I to spend the day with my parents who never cease to entertain with their pithy political commentary, extensive bird knowledge and hilarious reflections on life.
We had crab melts for lunch, the lump crabmeat from as near as Reedville, and then settled in for hours of conversation while keeping an eye on the non-stop flight patterns of birds incoming for meals at their various feeders despite the continued onslaught of rain.
A couple of tiny hummingbirds were adorable to watch, the sparrows were particularly tenacious in returning and a male cardinal arrived so drenched that the crest on his head was flattened out completely.
From my perch on the wicker settee, I watched as the rain obliterated the land on the far side of the river, making it look like the silvery water met the sky.
For fun, we looked through a massive album full of old photos, ticket stubs, poems and notes that one of my sisters had made for my Dad's 70th birthday. I especially loved the pictures of my parents from the '70s, my Dad with his massive mutton chops and plaid pants with white belt and my Mom in short skirts and hip jewelry.
My groovy parents.
One photo in particular caught my eye because it showed Dad with his six young daughters at the beach in 1969, which led to ribbing about how very fertile Mom had been.
"With three of my daughters, all I had to do was throw my shorts on the bed and she got pregnant," my Dad cracked to uproarious laughter and mild mortification on the part of my companion. Dads will be dads, no?
Of course, once he heard laughter, he couldn't stop himself from going for more, bringing up my, ahem, colorful past and passing judgement on it as only a man who found the love of his life at 23 can. Must be nice to be so lucky that way.
By the time we drove back to Richmond (with only a few minor episodes of hydroplaning, yikes), we had just enough time for a meal in service of my hired mouth before parting ways.
Given that it was already after 7, all I could think was thank goodness you don't have to look good for comedy, so I tidied up and set out (again, this time on foot through massive puddles) in the pouring rain for the Comedy Coalition and some non-Dad humor.
Tonight's show was "What Was I Thinking?" and was based on journal entries from people brave enough to share their adolescent angst.
From her Hello, Kitty locked diary, Kim read several entries from 1997 and 1999 about the posters on her walls, the songs she liked and Anthony, her one true love since 3rd grade, although she was still nervous about fast dancing with him unless there were plenty of people around. Slow dancing, now that was fine.
Life sucks. I might have to move to Cali. I might have scoliosis.
The improv performers wasted no time in riffing on her teen-aged malaise, like using pinhole cameras to avoid eye contact with someone you liked and explaining human vibrators. Best line from a Mom to her daughter: "You're going to be alone because no man is going to want to listen to your music!"
Matt was the next victim willing to bare his journal and, in his case, ephemera for the sake of comedy.
He'd brought posters acquired over time - "You don't get that kind of collection overnight" ("Ace Ventura," Ren & Stimpy, the Road Kill Cafe, Green Day, aliens) - plus the journal he'd begun when he started drinking and writing and a scrapbook of his sports accomplishments (swim team ribbons ranging from 1st place to 23rd place) compiled by - who else? - his Mom.
Your eyes take me too close to a past I'm not ready to look at yet
That mother lode resulted in a bit about his Mom knitting a sweater that incorporated his accomplishments (53rd place in arriving to school on time) and a pair of Converse painted with the names people, including bullies, called him. Another centered on "X Files" and mouth-probing aliens.
Last to sacrifice her dignity on the altar of comedy was Katie with her fuzzy blue leopard spotted journal detailing her first mosh pit at Sauce-a-palooza ("Jeez, it was so spiffy!"), poetry ("Let love come to you. If it doesn't, you don't deserve it." was topped only by "Now and forever, you are an obstetrician. You helped me be born again.") and a list of every cliched '90s CD she absolutely needed (Disturbd, System of a Down, Sublime).
Like Kim's diary entries, Katie's listed every single friend she went places with, even if it was 20 people, sometimes with first and last names and other times with just a first name and last initial, as if to keep their identity secret. Hilarious.
Clinging to you like a pair of wet jeans
Heavy on the wet
No one get deep like a teen-aged girl.
It was some rich material to pull from and the performers mocked high school poetry competitions (one teacher trading a year of overseeing detention to get out of judging the competition) and girls who started thinking marriage after a boy did no more than talk to them, all of which involved ridiculously long lists of friends' names ("Was that Cher B. or Cher M? I think it was Cher C.").
This rainy day turned out to be full of laughs start to finish. They say you have to let comedy come to you and if it doesn't, you don't deserve it.
Hell, I don't mind driving or walking to it if the laughs are good.
Friday, September 1, 2017
Dirty Jersey
Crossing state lines took a backseat to music.
Our plans to head to the Potomac to eat crabs got moved, so we did the most unlikely thing: went to see a film about hip hop in a theater populated by old white people. I kid you not.
The movie was Patti Cake$, the venue was Movieland and the draw was that the producer - a former Richmonder who graduated Collegiate - would be in the house to take questions afterward.
But apparently Michael Gottwald's parents had put out the word to their circle and the result was a theater full of people who needed to be warned ahead of time that the previews could be unpleasant. What they didn't warn the comfortable and economically-advantaged audience concerned the movie itself.
Let's face it, you can't tell the story of a white, plus-sized female wanna-be rapper from New Jersey (so of course the movie began with a Springsteen song) without a fair amount of violence, explicit language and bathroom stall vomiting. Gasps were heard around us more than once.
Mac and I, on the other hand, saw all the appeal that the Sundance crowd had seen in the story of a young woman pursuing her unlikely dream with the unabashed support of her Nana and the eventual support of her mother, a singer who never realized her dreams.
At the Q & A, it was obvious the crowd was still trying to wrap its head around why a nice white boy from Richmond had gotten behind a film about a rapper, albeit a white rapper. Gottwald explained that his job as producer was to find people with a vision and help them realize it, but the audience was slow to grasp that.
We left the country club set behind to head to Doner Kebab for shawarmas, where a gracious table of young middle eastern men engaged in a spirited conversation insisted on moving their table over to our bench once our food arrived.
Their English was accented and their manners were impeccable, allowing us to enjoy our meal outside in the soft summer air that I fear is no longer the norm.
The final stop of the evening was Flora for Mikrowaves' CD (and tape) release show. We started at the front bar, Mac with a Bad and Boozy cocktail (come on, it's a great name) and me with the complete opposite: Espolon over one giant cube.
Making our way to the back room, we eventually found stools along the back wall and settled in for the 12-piece Brunswick, with their usual healthy dose of horns, percussion and young man energy.
Looking around the room, Mac commented that she couldn't recall the last time she'd been in a room with so many men. I guess I don't even notice that anymore after so many years of going to shows.
That said, I ran into plenty of men I knew: two sax players, a bass player intently studying lead singer Eddie playing the bass, the trumpet player I last saw at the beach, a sous chef from Pasture who recognized me before I recognized him and then pulled me into a deep conversation.
Meanwhile, over at the bar, we spotted a woman balancing her butt cheeks on two different bar stools, an interesting act of balancing.
And Mikrowaves, so they don't start playing until 11:30, well, they're nine musicians who never disappoint. Since Mac hadn't seen them, she'd asked one of the musicians what their music was like, only to be told it was an amalgamation of many things, all emanating from Eddie's active brain.
Now watching their set of old and new music unfold from atop the back most bar table, she nodded, agreeing that it wasn't any one thing. There's Eddie's soulful voice, there's that standout horn section, and don't forget the Caribbean and African influences - wait, is that blues I'm hearing? - and a terrific rhythm section.
In short order, many in the room began dancing. Mac had to leave because of an early wake-up call, so I climbed off the table and joined the dancing throngs.
Crabs will still be there next week and butt cheeks may fall, but there's only one Mikrowaves release show.
Our plans to head to the Potomac to eat crabs got moved, so we did the most unlikely thing: went to see a film about hip hop in a theater populated by old white people. I kid you not.
The movie was Patti Cake$, the venue was Movieland and the draw was that the producer - a former Richmonder who graduated Collegiate - would be in the house to take questions afterward.
But apparently Michael Gottwald's parents had put out the word to their circle and the result was a theater full of people who needed to be warned ahead of time that the previews could be unpleasant. What they didn't warn the comfortable and economically-advantaged audience concerned the movie itself.
Let's face it, you can't tell the story of a white, plus-sized female wanna-be rapper from New Jersey (so of course the movie began with a Springsteen song) without a fair amount of violence, explicit language and bathroom stall vomiting. Gasps were heard around us more than once.
Mac and I, on the other hand, saw all the appeal that the Sundance crowd had seen in the story of a young woman pursuing her unlikely dream with the unabashed support of her Nana and the eventual support of her mother, a singer who never realized her dreams.
At the Q & A, it was obvious the crowd was still trying to wrap its head around why a nice white boy from Richmond had gotten behind a film about a rapper, albeit a white rapper. Gottwald explained that his job as producer was to find people with a vision and help them realize it, but the audience was slow to grasp that.
We left the country club set behind to head to Doner Kebab for shawarmas, where a gracious table of young middle eastern men engaged in a spirited conversation insisted on moving their table over to our bench once our food arrived.
Their English was accented and their manners were impeccable, allowing us to enjoy our meal outside in the soft summer air that I fear is no longer the norm.
The final stop of the evening was Flora for Mikrowaves' CD (and tape) release show. We started at the front bar, Mac with a Bad and Boozy cocktail (come on, it's a great name) and me with the complete opposite: Espolon over one giant cube.
Making our way to the back room, we eventually found stools along the back wall and settled in for the 12-piece Brunswick, with their usual healthy dose of horns, percussion and young man energy.
Looking around the room, Mac commented that she couldn't recall the last time she'd been in a room with so many men. I guess I don't even notice that anymore after so many years of going to shows.
That said, I ran into plenty of men I knew: two sax players, a bass player intently studying lead singer Eddie playing the bass, the trumpet player I last saw at the beach, a sous chef from Pasture who recognized me before I recognized him and then pulled me into a deep conversation.
Meanwhile, over at the bar, we spotted a woman balancing her butt cheeks on two different bar stools, an interesting act of balancing.
And Mikrowaves, so they don't start playing until 11:30, well, they're nine musicians who never disappoint. Since Mac hadn't seen them, she'd asked one of the musicians what their music was like, only to be told it was an amalgamation of many things, all emanating from Eddie's active brain.
Now watching their set of old and new music unfold from atop the back most bar table, she nodded, agreeing that it wasn't any one thing. There's Eddie's soulful voice, there's that standout horn section, and don't forget the Caribbean and African influences - wait, is that blues I'm hearing? - and a terrific rhythm section.
In short order, many in the room began dancing. Mac had to leave because of an early wake-up call, so I climbed off the table and joined the dancing throngs.
Crabs will still be there next week and butt cheeks may fall, but there's only one Mikrowaves release show.
Thursday, August 31, 2017
Harmonies of the I Love My Life Choir
Our cork popped before we even had time to be the squash.
The bottle that couldn't wait could be traced back to Greenleaf's Pool Room, where my date and I landed after quality time on the balcony with glasses of Fazio Aegades Grillo and Todd Rundgren providing the soundtrack.
One of the many pleasures of Todd - besides the obvious: major talent - is the sheer pleasure of the liner notes. It's there we can glean who played the kalimba synthesizer (Brent Bourgeois) versus the spooky synthesizer (Roger Powell) and that Bobby Womack, the Dick Bright Strings and the I Love My Life Choir all contributed to "Nearly Human."
Thus fortified with obscure musical trivia, we set our sights on Greenleaf's Pool Room for dinner. Long a casual favorite of mine, it was my date's first visit and he fell for all the same things I do. What's not to like about low banquettes for lounging and colorful paintings of pool-playing greats by a Mexican artist?
Seeking a bottle to take with us to a show afterward, we decided on Treveri Blanc de Blanc before diving into a simple supper of tomato soup and the bar toast known as Tout de Sweet - goat cheese, herbs and housemade orange marmalade on toasted Billy bread (me) - and an oddly-shaped yet completely delicious Monte Cristo complete with housemade berry jam (him) to accompany it.
When we'd arrived, only one pool table was occupied, but as we chowed down, three other tables were taken over by players, many arriving with their own pool cues in zippered cases. It's great entertainment for the eating masses.
Although we were running out of time, I decided I couldn't do without a warm brownie (actually, two), although I did forgo the optional shot of bourbon on it. A woman's got to know her limits.
After the bartender fashioned a cork for our remaining bubbly, we were off.
Then it was across the river to the groovy Earth Folk Collective for their 3rd annual squash roast gathering and by then darkness was falling (damn you, Autumn!). A fire had already been lit and people were gathered around it when we strolled up the long grass walkway.
Standing near the house chatting, there was a sudden pop from the bag my date held and that makeshift cork took off, never to be seen again. But the pop was a pretty festive way to announce our arrival.
Further in, my date ran into a musician he knew and introduced me. "Are you two married? she asked, making both of us smile at the unlikely question. No, but we have been dating for almost 90 days, if that counts for anything.
After that, there was nothing to do but grab some jelly jars from the kitchen and spread our blanket near the campfire. As it was, Juan Harmon was already playing in the twinkle light-festooned shed that faces the yard and serves as the stage. We'd heard their mellifluous accordion/guitar/drum music just a few weeks ago at Scuffletown Park, but it was lovely to hear it again.
After their set, Fa Bra took the stage to lead anyone interested through some squash-inspired yoga in the fading light. We watched as people stretched to grow like a squash and eventually to become the squash. but we stayed rooted on our blanket sipping bubbles.
D.C.'s Elena y os Fulanos were up next, a treat because Elena's songs were bi-lingual and reflected the immigrant experience. "I love that you can be an immigrant and an American at the same time!" she gushed. She also explained that she'd been on tour for a while and had lost her hair gel, so her 'do wasn't up to par.
From a nearby chair out of the lights sat percussionist extraordinaire Rei Alvarez, effortlessly playing maracas and guiro to Elena's songs. I tell you, that man is a Richmond treasure.
The view from our blanket was about as wonderful as you'd expect, what with a campfire with a rack of squash roasting and lights strung on Laney and Jameson's little blue mobile home, the shed and arbor, all under a sky of cotton batting-like clouds with the moon doing its best to make its presence known.
Fa Bra returned to tease us into squash again with a pose that looked to involve the squash folding over on itself. I didn't do it, but I did imagine myself as a squash.
Last up was a feast of girl voices with Whatever Honey, who told us right off the bat that they hadn't played out in a year. You couldn't tell it by the harmonies they put out. As my musician companion noted, there's just something more complex about female voices singing together than males.
Leaning back, listening to the gorgeous harmonies and guitar playing while the scent of candles filled the air, we could have been teleported back to a commune in the '70s, it was that kind of easygoing vibe.
No mellows could be harshed when voices this angelic are being sung to the night sky. With apologies to Elena, I love that I can be a Blanc de Blanc sipper and an old hippie at the same time.
And not being on tour, all my hair products are present and accounted for.
The bottle that couldn't wait could be traced back to Greenleaf's Pool Room, where my date and I landed after quality time on the balcony with glasses of Fazio Aegades Grillo and Todd Rundgren providing the soundtrack.
One of the many pleasures of Todd - besides the obvious: major talent - is the sheer pleasure of the liner notes. It's there we can glean who played the kalimba synthesizer (Brent Bourgeois) versus the spooky synthesizer (Roger Powell) and that Bobby Womack, the Dick Bright Strings and the I Love My Life Choir all contributed to "Nearly Human."
Thus fortified with obscure musical trivia, we set our sights on Greenleaf's Pool Room for dinner. Long a casual favorite of mine, it was my date's first visit and he fell for all the same things I do. What's not to like about low banquettes for lounging and colorful paintings of pool-playing greats by a Mexican artist?
Seeking a bottle to take with us to a show afterward, we decided on Treveri Blanc de Blanc before diving into a simple supper of tomato soup and the bar toast known as Tout de Sweet - goat cheese, herbs and housemade orange marmalade on toasted Billy bread (me) - and an oddly-shaped yet completely delicious Monte Cristo complete with housemade berry jam (him) to accompany it.
When we'd arrived, only one pool table was occupied, but as we chowed down, three other tables were taken over by players, many arriving with their own pool cues in zippered cases. It's great entertainment for the eating masses.
Although we were running out of time, I decided I couldn't do without a warm brownie (actually, two), although I did forgo the optional shot of bourbon on it. A woman's got to know her limits.
After the bartender fashioned a cork for our remaining bubbly, we were off.
Then it was across the river to the groovy Earth Folk Collective for their 3rd annual squash roast gathering and by then darkness was falling (damn you, Autumn!). A fire had already been lit and people were gathered around it when we strolled up the long grass walkway.
Standing near the house chatting, there was a sudden pop from the bag my date held and that makeshift cork took off, never to be seen again. But the pop was a pretty festive way to announce our arrival.
Further in, my date ran into a musician he knew and introduced me. "Are you two married? she asked, making both of us smile at the unlikely question. No, but we have been dating for almost 90 days, if that counts for anything.
After that, there was nothing to do but grab some jelly jars from the kitchen and spread our blanket near the campfire. As it was, Juan Harmon was already playing in the twinkle light-festooned shed that faces the yard and serves as the stage. We'd heard their mellifluous accordion/guitar/drum music just a few weeks ago at Scuffletown Park, but it was lovely to hear it again.
After their set, Fa Bra took the stage to lead anyone interested through some squash-inspired yoga in the fading light. We watched as people stretched to grow like a squash and eventually to become the squash. but we stayed rooted on our blanket sipping bubbles.
D.C.'s Elena y os Fulanos were up next, a treat because Elena's songs were bi-lingual and reflected the immigrant experience. "I love that you can be an immigrant and an American at the same time!" she gushed. She also explained that she'd been on tour for a while and had lost her hair gel, so her 'do wasn't up to par.
From a nearby chair out of the lights sat percussionist extraordinaire Rei Alvarez, effortlessly playing maracas and guiro to Elena's songs. I tell you, that man is a Richmond treasure.
The view from our blanket was about as wonderful as you'd expect, what with a campfire with a rack of squash roasting and lights strung on Laney and Jameson's little blue mobile home, the shed and arbor, all under a sky of cotton batting-like clouds with the moon doing its best to make its presence known.
Fa Bra returned to tease us into squash again with a pose that looked to involve the squash folding over on itself. I didn't do it, but I did imagine myself as a squash.
Last up was a feast of girl voices with Whatever Honey, who told us right off the bat that they hadn't played out in a year. You couldn't tell it by the harmonies they put out. As my musician companion noted, there's just something more complex about female voices singing together than males.
Leaning back, listening to the gorgeous harmonies and guitar playing while the scent of candles filled the air, we could have been teleported back to a commune in the '70s, it was that kind of easygoing vibe.
No mellows could be harshed when voices this angelic are being sung to the night sky. With apologies to Elena, I love that I can be a Blanc de Blanc sipper and an old hippie at the same time.
And not being on tour, all my hair products are present and accounted for.
Wednesday, August 30, 2017
The Happiness Meter
Don't ask college students to recognize happiness and unhappiness.
Or if someone does - say, their film professor - prepare to be wildly entertained by how they interpret both.
Tonight kicked off another semester of VCU Cinematheque with Mike Leigh's "Another Year," a film I'd seen in 2011 when it came out. But my date had never seen it and I can always enjoy rewatching a Jim Broadbent performance.
You can always tell it's early on at the Grace Street Theater because the place is packed. I know from past years that attendance waxes and wanes over the semester depending on what else is going on. Or perhaps college students just can't sustain a whole semester's interest in anything, hard to say.
Before the film began, the visiting professor told the students to watch the film with an eye for what makes some people happy while others remain unhappy. He even went so far as to tell them to ponder what would make each of them truly happy.
Sorry, prof, but that's far too big a question for a roomful of teenagers.
The film moves through four seasons in the life of a happy older married couple, Tom and Gerri. It was interesting, though, because where my middle-aged date and I saw every sign of happiness between the couple, the students saw smugness and condescension.
The role of unhappiness was played by Mary, a co-worker of Gerri's, a divorced woman who claimed she was happy and yet whined and drank to daily excess. A woman so desperate she would unabashedly hit on the couple's 30-year old son. A woman perpetually having a crises.
In my opinion, a woman not happy with herself so unable to find happiness with anyone else.
As the film cycles through the year, we see the couple enjoying their life together - gardening, reading and talking in bed, making meals for themselves, family and friends - which often includes comments and looks between the two that are meant for no one else.
To my middle-aged eyes, it was easy to see the intimacy and affection of this couple who had been married for 30+ years and how they shared their bond with others.
When the movie ended, I told my date we needed to stay for at least part of the discussion, because past screenings have proven how entertaining and illuminating they can be.
Because once the post-film Q & A began, we were treated to a completely different way of viewing the film's story: through a millennial lens.
In a key scene where the divorcee meets the son's new girlfriend, she is rude and dismissive of the young woman, despite being at dinner in the home of his parents/her friends. Her disdain for the girlfriend and obvious disappointment that the son has a love interest is palpable. As a result, a rift develops between Gerri and Mary.
That rift is acknowledged in the next season, with Gerri suggesting Mary see a therapist and while Gerri is a therapist, she insists Mary see someone else. Ethics and all.
The college students were convinced something had happened in between the seasons that the director hadn't shown. Something unknown had caused the rift and they thought Gerri was callous not to be willing to counsel her friend.
And while I can chalk up them not knowing that a therapist wouldn't treat a friend to being millennial (and not having much life experience), not one of them realized that it was Mary's deplorable behavior at Tom and Gerri's home to their son's new girlfriend that had caused the problem.
Did a guest's obvious lack of civility and basic manners go completely unnoticed by the students in the theater? Sure did. That's why they were convinced something else had happened in the interim.
Even more bizarre was how the professor stressed that happy people were boring and only the unhappy ones were interesting. Including himself in the latter category, he found plenty of support among students who had a completely different read on Mary than we did.
Where we saw dysfunctional, they saw something they could relate to. Where we saw desperate, they saw gutsy. Where we saw depressed, they saw someone who couldn't catch a break.
It was bizarre.
Our differences in perception extended to Tom and Gerri because the students saw their pithy commentary and knowing looks as condescending, whereas we saw them as evidence of the kind of verbal and non-verbal shorthand that couples develop over the years.
It seemed that the students felt that the couple was looking down on people who weren't happy, while we felt like they went out of their way to share their home, hearth and happiness with a string of miserable people.
When one kid tried to bring some religious connotation that wasn't there to a scene, the more senior and knowledgeable of the professors clarified by saying director Mike Leigh took more of a communist than religious approach.
You could almost hear the gasps from some young filmmakers-to-be.
Another guy, in trying to explain his point, suggested that we all know the path to happiness is "marriage, have some kids and provide for them to eat," although his thesis soon ran (understandably) aground. Not a one of those things guarantees happiness, son. For that matter, they're not even required.
One movie, two viewpoints.
Happiness is being able to appreciate a screening where the discussion is almost as illuminating as the film.
Or if someone does - say, their film professor - prepare to be wildly entertained by how they interpret both.
Tonight kicked off another semester of VCU Cinematheque with Mike Leigh's "Another Year," a film I'd seen in 2011 when it came out. But my date had never seen it and I can always enjoy rewatching a Jim Broadbent performance.
You can always tell it's early on at the Grace Street Theater because the place is packed. I know from past years that attendance waxes and wanes over the semester depending on what else is going on. Or perhaps college students just can't sustain a whole semester's interest in anything, hard to say.
Before the film began, the visiting professor told the students to watch the film with an eye for what makes some people happy while others remain unhappy. He even went so far as to tell them to ponder what would make each of them truly happy.
Sorry, prof, but that's far too big a question for a roomful of teenagers.
The film moves through four seasons in the life of a happy older married couple, Tom and Gerri. It was interesting, though, because where my middle-aged date and I saw every sign of happiness between the couple, the students saw smugness and condescension.
The role of unhappiness was played by Mary, a co-worker of Gerri's, a divorced woman who claimed she was happy and yet whined and drank to daily excess. A woman so desperate she would unabashedly hit on the couple's 30-year old son. A woman perpetually having a crises.
In my opinion, a woman not happy with herself so unable to find happiness with anyone else.
As the film cycles through the year, we see the couple enjoying their life together - gardening, reading and talking in bed, making meals for themselves, family and friends - which often includes comments and looks between the two that are meant for no one else.
To my middle-aged eyes, it was easy to see the intimacy and affection of this couple who had been married for 30+ years and how they shared their bond with others.
When the movie ended, I told my date we needed to stay for at least part of the discussion, because past screenings have proven how entertaining and illuminating they can be.
Because once the post-film Q & A began, we were treated to a completely different way of viewing the film's story: through a millennial lens.
In a key scene where the divorcee meets the son's new girlfriend, she is rude and dismissive of the young woman, despite being at dinner in the home of his parents/her friends. Her disdain for the girlfriend and obvious disappointment that the son has a love interest is palpable. As a result, a rift develops between Gerri and Mary.
That rift is acknowledged in the next season, with Gerri suggesting Mary see a therapist and while Gerri is a therapist, she insists Mary see someone else. Ethics and all.
The college students were convinced something had happened in between the seasons that the director hadn't shown. Something unknown had caused the rift and they thought Gerri was callous not to be willing to counsel her friend.
And while I can chalk up them not knowing that a therapist wouldn't treat a friend to being millennial (and not having much life experience), not one of them realized that it was Mary's deplorable behavior at Tom and Gerri's home to their son's new girlfriend that had caused the problem.
Did a guest's obvious lack of civility and basic manners go completely unnoticed by the students in the theater? Sure did. That's why they were convinced something else had happened in the interim.
Even more bizarre was how the professor stressed that happy people were boring and only the unhappy ones were interesting. Including himself in the latter category, he found plenty of support among students who had a completely different read on Mary than we did.
Where we saw dysfunctional, they saw something they could relate to. Where we saw desperate, they saw gutsy. Where we saw depressed, they saw someone who couldn't catch a break.
It was bizarre.
Our differences in perception extended to Tom and Gerri because the students saw their pithy commentary and knowing looks as condescending, whereas we saw them as evidence of the kind of verbal and non-verbal shorthand that couples develop over the years.
It seemed that the students felt that the couple was looking down on people who weren't happy, while we felt like they went out of their way to share their home, hearth and happiness with a string of miserable people.
When one kid tried to bring some religious connotation that wasn't there to a scene, the more senior and knowledgeable of the professors clarified by saying director Mike Leigh took more of a communist than religious approach.
You could almost hear the gasps from some young filmmakers-to-be.
Another guy, in trying to explain his point, suggested that we all know the path to happiness is "marriage, have some kids and provide for them to eat," although his thesis soon ran (understandably) aground. Not a one of those things guarantees happiness, son. For that matter, they're not even required.
One movie, two viewpoints.
Happiness is being able to appreciate a screening where the discussion is almost as illuminating as the film.
Tuesday, August 29, 2017
Use Your Nouns
Poetry about cleaning toilets was prelude to a marriage being parsed.
All I knew was that it had seemed like forever since I'd last been to a poetry reading, so walking into Chop Suey and seeing the metal folding chairs set up between the tables and shelves of books felt instantly familiar and comfortably reassuring.
We'd arrived early enough for me to pick up "Meet Me in the Bathroom: Rebirth and Rock and Roll in New York City 2001-2011," a book I'd been coveting all summer, before snagging seats in my favorite row, which just happens to front the art book section.
This works out well because I can pull interesting titles and gawk ahead of the reading. Tonight's temptation was a book on Degas (how could I not be drawn to his New Orleans work and a scene of a cotton market with no less than 14 figures in it?) and another on photographer Walker Evans (especially images depicting the south in the '30s), which I couldn't resist sharing with the nerd who'd accompanied me.
Poet Ryan Kent was reading from his new book, "This is Why I am Insane" to a fairly full house of friends, family and random poetry reading-goers like us. He apologized more than once for the "cuss words," and while I'm no angel, I do get tired of "shit" being used as an all purpose noun to encompassanything everything.
Also, it may be me, but I never again need to hear about dick hairs on a toilet in a poem.
That said, his poetry read like songs and he wrote without pretense, using references to what he knew - older women, cars on lawns in Petersburg, drinking - almost always ending his poem at exactly the right place. For a change, a poet who made brevity work.
Some of his phrases were wonderfully evocative, from "Watching her walk with all the right swing" to a reference to "A stalemate of cars in traffic on 95." Visuals sprung from his words.
He ended with the most recent poem he'd written, which he sarcastically called an upper. I've heard Sylvia Plath did something similar.
Leaving Chop Suey, we decided to walk to dinner, striking out first at the Stables at Belmont and second at Belmont Food Shop, so we decided to forsake Belmont entirely and make our way to Kuba, Kuba.
As you'd expect for any night of the week, Kuba, Kuba was close to capacity but we spotted two empty bar stools and promptly claimed them before anyone else could. Even though it's been eons since I'd been in, I knew without opening the menu what I was getting.
Not having to read gave me time to start eavesdropping on the two men next to us who were trying to decide if Guy #1 should jump ship on his marriage. Guy #2 wanted to know if after they'd gotten married there had been a honeymoon period where everything seemed idyllic and hopeful.
Negative.
Guy #2 pressed on, curious about why #1 was ready to give up. Many reasons were listed, but #1 summed it up by saying, "She's a great woman but she's not the woman for me."
So he'd made up his mind.
Guy #2 immediately shifts into next stage mode, suggesting what #1 needed tonight was a hook-up and Tinder was just the place to find one.
That gave #1 some bluster. "I could get four girls in ten minutes," he bragged. Down, boy. It's a woman's prerogative to swipe.
They toasted his success with using a device to mend his broken heart by raising their glasses: #1's of Coke and #2's a Sierra Nevada. Now that I think about it, it was a pretty lame toast, probably fitting for a self-proclaimed pretty lame marriage (or, perhaps more accurately, marriage attempt).
Then they celebrated the manly way: by ordering three entrees to share between the two of them. My guess is that #1 is going to move on just fine without the missus. Besides, doesn't everyone get a starter marriage?
Distraction arrived when our waitress showed up with our order and it got within 6" of the counter before she swooped them up again and deposited them in front of the two guys on the other side of us.
"That was just a tease, a look-see," she joked to us as they ate the food.
Our own arrived shortly thereafter and I was pleased to taste that no matter how many years go by in between visits, I can always count on the shrimp and mussels in Tasso ham and garlic broth for plump seafood, tons of ham and killer broth for endless sopping.
It's a dish guaranteed to make me sweat garlic tomorrow...in a good way.
When our server brought the check, she did so with a look of contrition on her face. Seems she'd charged the duo next to us for our meal and now she felt obligated to charge us for theirs. Since theirs was cheaper and ours had been delicious, we couldn't complain.
But who's complaining? Poetry, dinner and music on my breezy balcony is enough to make anyone wax poetic.
All I knew was that it had seemed like forever since I'd last been to a poetry reading, so walking into Chop Suey and seeing the metal folding chairs set up between the tables and shelves of books felt instantly familiar and comfortably reassuring.
We'd arrived early enough for me to pick up "Meet Me in the Bathroom: Rebirth and Rock and Roll in New York City 2001-2011," a book I'd been coveting all summer, before snagging seats in my favorite row, which just happens to front the art book section.
This works out well because I can pull interesting titles and gawk ahead of the reading. Tonight's temptation was a book on Degas (how could I not be drawn to his New Orleans work and a scene of a cotton market with no less than 14 figures in it?) and another on photographer Walker Evans (especially images depicting the south in the '30s), which I couldn't resist sharing with the nerd who'd accompanied me.
Poet Ryan Kent was reading from his new book, "This is Why I am Insane" to a fairly full house of friends, family and random poetry reading-goers like us. He apologized more than once for the "cuss words," and while I'm no angel, I do get tired of "shit" being used as an all purpose noun to encompass
Also, it may be me, but I never again need to hear about dick hairs on a toilet in a poem.
That said, his poetry read like songs and he wrote without pretense, using references to what he knew - older women, cars on lawns in Petersburg, drinking - almost always ending his poem at exactly the right place. For a change, a poet who made brevity work.
Some of his phrases were wonderfully evocative, from "Watching her walk with all the right swing" to a reference to "A stalemate of cars in traffic on 95." Visuals sprung from his words.
He ended with the most recent poem he'd written, which he sarcastically called an upper. I've heard Sylvia Plath did something similar.
Leaving Chop Suey, we decided to walk to dinner, striking out first at the Stables at Belmont and second at Belmont Food Shop, so we decided to forsake Belmont entirely and make our way to Kuba, Kuba.
As you'd expect for any night of the week, Kuba, Kuba was close to capacity but we spotted two empty bar stools and promptly claimed them before anyone else could. Even though it's been eons since I'd been in, I knew without opening the menu what I was getting.
Not having to read gave me time to start eavesdropping on the two men next to us who were trying to decide if Guy #1 should jump ship on his marriage. Guy #2 wanted to know if after they'd gotten married there had been a honeymoon period where everything seemed idyllic and hopeful.
Negative.
Guy #2 pressed on, curious about why #1 was ready to give up. Many reasons were listed, but #1 summed it up by saying, "She's a great woman but she's not the woman for me."
So he'd made up his mind.
Guy #2 immediately shifts into next stage mode, suggesting what #1 needed tonight was a hook-up and Tinder was just the place to find one.
That gave #1 some bluster. "I could get four girls in ten minutes," he bragged. Down, boy. It's a woman's prerogative to swipe.
They toasted his success with using a device to mend his broken heart by raising their glasses: #1's of Coke and #2's a Sierra Nevada. Now that I think about it, it was a pretty lame toast, probably fitting for a self-proclaimed pretty lame marriage (or, perhaps more accurately, marriage attempt).
Then they celebrated the manly way: by ordering three entrees to share between the two of them. My guess is that #1 is going to move on just fine without the missus. Besides, doesn't everyone get a starter marriage?
Distraction arrived when our waitress showed up with our order and it got within 6" of the counter before she swooped them up again and deposited them in front of the two guys on the other side of us.
"That was just a tease, a look-see," she joked to us as they ate the food.
Our own arrived shortly thereafter and I was pleased to taste that no matter how many years go by in between visits, I can always count on the shrimp and mussels in Tasso ham and garlic broth for plump seafood, tons of ham and killer broth for endless sopping.
It's a dish guaranteed to make me sweat garlic tomorrow...in a good way.
When our server brought the check, she did so with a look of contrition on her face. Seems she'd charged the duo next to us for our meal and now she felt obligated to charge us for theirs. Since theirs was cheaper and ours had been delicious, we couldn't complain.
But who's complaining? Poetry, dinner and music on my breezy balcony is enough to make anyone wax poetic.
Monday, August 28, 2017
Time in a Bottle
With only a week left, I needed to get in one more wearing of my white shorts before Labor Day.
That need paired with temperate weather and a constant breeze told me it was a Lilly Pad kind of day.
Not that any sunny day isn't suitable for hanging out at a cinderblock building (incidentally, one with a mural on the back reading, "Having an affair? with an image of a 40s-era couple) next to a boat landing in Varina.
So mid-afternoon, my date and I pulled in behind one of many mammoth trucks and SUVs parked in the lot with boat hitches attached. Judging by the sheer number of them, the river had to be chockablock with boats and jet skis.
Walking into the Lilly Pad, I ran into a guy I hadn't seen in ages, despite knowing him for 20+ years. Saying that he was the last person I expected to see this far out, I looked to his side to see another face from the past, this one from a decade ago.
Grinning at me after hugging and saying hello, he asked, "Am I the second to last person you expected to see out here?"
After introducing my date, we chatted with them for a while. It was their first time at the Pad and they'd liked it, they'd really liked it. Grinning like fools, they were now headed back to the city to see what they could get in to.
We intended to do the same, only on premises.
That required scoring a bottle of wine in an orange beach bucket from the kite enthusiast I know behind the bar ("Don't believe a word they said!" he tells me as if I don't know this) and staking a claim on a patio table that had a generous umbrella.
I thought I was prepared, having brought a hat just in case (didn't need it), but a woman a few tables away had shown up with her own umbrella and a Chinese fan.
She also turned out to be a major Jim Croce fan, so "Bad, Bad Leroy Brown" got her up and dancing (albeit alone) and later, "You Don't Miss Around with Jim" did the same. Strange, I never saw Jim Croce as particularly dancey music until today.
The live music featured Chris Grigg playing guitar and singing a hell of a range of song choices. I mean, how often does a set list range from Kenny Rogers' "Ruby, Don't Take Your Love to Town" to George Michael's "Father Figure" with a detour of "All Along the Watchtower?"
Only in Varina, folks.
People-watching at the Lilly Pad is always fabulous. Only here do you see people smoking as casually as if it's 1967. One guy lit up a cigar and blew the smoke directly at the people at the next table. Several people lit one cigarette from their last one.
Next to us, two women discussed back when they got their long hair cut into shags and the trauma that caused them. When one said, "Who wears a shag anyway?" I just smiled at her with my shag haircut.
It's the kind of joint where I'm standing in line for the ladies' room and the guy going into the men's room feels my pain, pointing inside it and saying, "Sorry, it's a one-holer."
Over on the side of the patio sits a bar, but not a service bar, just a beat-up old bar where customers can sit and have a place to put their bucket of Buds or rum and Coke. It's Lilly Pad fancy, though, with a bar-shaped canopy over it.
95% of the men on the patio have on black t-shirts of one kind or another. One says, "I love pig butts" and I'm okay with that. Another has a Confederate flag on it, the words, "We the people" and then a passage from the second amendment and I wasn't okay with that.
Over by the wall, a large table is intently listening to their drunk friend blather over the music. "You might make a left turn on Williamsburg Road, but I'll make you turn around!" he crows.
All afternoon, boats of every stripe come and go from the dock, some tying up to come into the Pad and others just heading out on the river. It was the ideal moving visual to complement the sparkling water and soft breeze.
About 6:30, the yellow A & B snack boat pulls in after another successful day hawking chips and candy to boaters.
Guitarist Grigg didn't disappoint when ending his set, first doing Johnny Cash's "Folsom Prison Blues" and then, of all the unlikely choices, "I Will Survive."
I'm telling you, this guy's set pendulum swung wide.
By the time we headed out, the sun was low in the sky and the air was feeling crisp, at least to those of us who prefer summer in our veins. My white shorts felt a tad inadequate come dusk.
Luckily, we didn't have far to go for dinner. Tonight was pizza club at Nota Bene and since we couldn't very well get back to my place without passing the restaurant, it only made sense to stop. That and a favorite wine rep had designed this month's pizza club pie and cocktail.
We'd just claimed stools at the end of the bar when she came over to greet us. The Facebook oracle had told me she'd recently sprained her ankle the last day of her beach vacation, but she was without crutches tonight and hobbling around.
It didn't take long to find out that it was after she'd been experimenting with tonight's pizza club cocktail - gin, Aperol, radler, bitters, lime cordial and basil - that she'd tripped on the steps of the beach house and sprained her ankle.
That's some real dedication to pizza club research right there.
On the owner's recommendation, we began with a salad of roasted local beets, goat cheese, mint, olive oil and lemon so good it had my date recanting his distaste for beets. Holmes had done the same about cauliflower in the same restaurant.
Just as wonderful was a riff on panzanella: a bowl of heirloom cherry and grape tomatoes with basil, pickled red onion, bread and a creamy ball of burrata to take it over the top. Eating all the heirlooms I can right now, I'm all about savoring every last taste of summer before it's gone.
But the main event, the reason for the evening and the creation of the hobbled wine rep was a pizza layered with housemade sausage, rosemary, hot peppers, honey and - be still, my heart - Tallegio.
For the second time in my life, it was left to me to introduce a man of Italian decent to this semi-soft cheese from his motherland. If I were the judgmental type, I'd say some mothers were asleep at the wheel to raise sons with no knowledge of Tallegio.
Everything about the pizza combination worked, from the earthy sausage to the fruity cheese to the heat of the peppers and sweet notes of honey, all on that stellar crust from a wood-burning oven.
And this is why you go to pizza club: it's a tonight-or-never proposition.
The same could be said for white short season. Shags, though, they're timeless.
That need paired with temperate weather and a constant breeze told me it was a Lilly Pad kind of day.
Not that any sunny day isn't suitable for hanging out at a cinderblock building (incidentally, one with a mural on the back reading, "Having an affair? with an image of a 40s-era couple) next to a boat landing in Varina.
So mid-afternoon, my date and I pulled in behind one of many mammoth trucks and SUVs parked in the lot with boat hitches attached. Judging by the sheer number of them, the river had to be chockablock with boats and jet skis.
Walking into the Lilly Pad, I ran into a guy I hadn't seen in ages, despite knowing him for 20+ years. Saying that he was the last person I expected to see this far out, I looked to his side to see another face from the past, this one from a decade ago.
Grinning at me after hugging and saying hello, he asked, "Am I the second to last person you expected to see out here?"
After introducing my date, we chatted with them for a while. It was their first time at the Pad and they'd liked it, they'd really liked it. Grinning like fools, they were now headed back to the city to see what they could get in to.
We intended to do the same, only on premises.
That required scoring a bottle of wine in an orange beach bucket from the kite enthusiast I know behind the bar ("Don't believe a word they said!" he tells me as if I don't know this) and staking a claim on a patio table that had a generous umbrella.
I thought I was prepared, having brought a hat just in case (didn't need it), but a woman a few tables away had shown up with her own umbrella and a Chinese fan.
She also turned out to be a major Jim Croce fan, so "Bad, Bad Leroy Brown" got her up and dancing (albeit alone) and later, "You Don't Miss Around with Jim" did the same. Strange, I never saw Jim Croce as particularly dancey music until today.
The live music featured Chris Grigg playing guitar and singing a hell of a range of song choices. I mean, how often does a set list range from Kenny Rogers' "Ruby, Don't Take Your Love to Town" to George Michael's "Father Figure" with a detour of "All Along the Watchtower?"
Only in Varina, folks.
People-watching at the Lilly Pad is always fabulous. Only here do you see people smoking as casually as if it's 1967. One guy lit up a cigar and blew the smoke directly at the people at the next table. Several people lit one cigarette from their last one.
Next to us, two women discussed back when they got their long hair cut into shags and the trauma that caused them. When one said, "Who wears a shag anyway?" I just smiled at her with my shag haircut.
It's the kind of joint where I'm standing in line for the ladies' room and the guy going into the men's room feels my pain, pointing inside it and saying, "Sorry, it's a one-holer."
Over on the side of the patio sits a bar, but not a service bar, just a beat-up old bar where customers can sit and have a place to put their bucket of Buds or rum and Coke. It's Lilly Pad fancy, though, with a bar-shaped canopy over it.
95% of the men on the patio have on black t-shirts of one kind or another. One says, "I love pig butts" and I'm okay with that. Another has a Confederate flag on it, the words, "We the people" and then a passage from the second amendment and I wasn't okay with that.
Over by the wall, a large table is intently listening to their drunk friend blather over the music. "You might make a left turn on Williamsburg Road, but I'll make you turn around!" he crows.
All afternoon, boats of every stripe come and go from the dock, some tying up to come into the Pad and others just heading out on the river. It was the ideal moving visual to complement the sparkling water and soft breeze.
About 6:30, the yellow A & B snack boat pulls in after another successful day hawking chips and candy to boaters.
Guitarist Grigg didn't disappoint when ending his set, first doing Johnny Cash's "Folsom Prison Blues" and then, of all the unlikely choices, "I Will Survive."
I'm telling you, this guy's set pendulum swung wide.
By the time we headed out, the sun was low in the sky and the air was feeling crisp, at least to those of us who prefer summer in our veins. My white shorts felt a tad inadequate come dusk.
Luckily, we didn't have far to go for dinner. Tonight was pizza club at Nota Bene and since we couldn't very well get back to my place without passing the restaurant, it only made sense to stop. That and a favorite wine rep had designed this month's pizza club pie and cocktail.
We'd just claimed stools at the end of the bar when she came over to greet us. The Facebook oracle had told me she'd recently sprained her ankle the last day of her beach vacation, but she was without crutches tonight and hobbling around.
It didn't take long to find out that it was after she'd been experimenting with tonight's pizza club cocktail - gin, Aperol, radler, bitters, lime cordial and basil - that she'd tripped on the steps of the beach house and sprained her ankle.
That's some real dedication to pizza club research right there.
On the owner's recommendation, we began with a salad of roasted local beets, goat cheese, mint, olive oil and lemon so good it had my date recanting his distaste for beets. Holmes had done the same about cauliflower in the same restaurant.
Just as wonderful was a riff on panzanella: a bowl of heirloom cherry and grape tomatoes with basil, pickled red onion, bread and a creamy ball of burrata to take it over the top. Eating all the heirlooms I can right now, I'm all about savoring every last taste of summer before it's gone.
But the main event, the reason for the evening and the creation of the hobbled wine rep was a pizza layered with housemade sausage, rosemary, hot peppers, honey and - be still, my heart - Tallegio.
For the second time in my life, it was left to me to introduce a man of Italian decent to this semi-soft cheese from his motherland. If I were the judgmental type, I'd say some mothers were asleep at the wheel to raise sons with no knowledge of Tallegio.
Everything about the pizza combination worked, from the earthy sausage to the fruity cheese to the heat of the peppers and sweet notes of honey, all on that stellar crust from a wood-burning oven.
And this is why you go to pizza club: it's a tonight-or-never proposition.
The same could be said for white short season. Shags, though, they're timeless.
Sunday, August 27, 2017
If It Sells, It Smells
Vaginacore. That's a thing.
If there was one takeaway from tonight, it was that vaginacore is a musical genre. I'm not even sure how that could surprise me, but it does.
My evening began at My Noodle & Bar, where the door was open to the beautiful night and the music was set to pure '90s: Alannis Morrisette, Soul Asylum, Spin Doctors. You could practically smell the flannel shirts and not in a good way.
I'd barely taken a stool for dinner when I heard my name called. In between the new decor of glass bottles holding herbs and greens along the bar (I like it), I could see Mac on the other side. It was strangely weird since we've never run into each other out before.
Behind me, conversation flew between the occupants of a table of eight.
Doesn't everyone go to Target on Saturdays?
He's got the handwriting of a 32-year old woman!
Got it! I'll send copies to you.
When their food began arriving, no one touched it. It was only once the older looking man said a prolonged grace in a language I didn't recognize that people began to pick up their chopsticks and eat.
Meanwhile, I had a documentary to make at 8:00, so when the bartender asked me if I wanted anything besides water, I declined. Funny, but he laid the drink menu back in front of me anyway.
"In case you change your mind," he says. "That no didn't sound very confident." Cheeky devil.
A group of 4 sat down at the corner of the bar (I pegged them for medical students) and began discussing what to order for dinner. When the bartender answered their question about making a dish as spicy as requested, it threw them into a collective tizzy.
"Now I have to read the whole menu all over again cause I didn't bother reading the hot ones!" one young woman whined as the others nodded. Her friend was too busy looking at her phone when their order was being taken to give hers, but you can believe the once off the phone, she wanted her order taken pronto.
It doesn't work that way, Snowflake.
Because I'd arrived right as the restaurant had filled up, the kitchen was immediately slammed and my broccoli and chicken entree took a while to show up. On the positive side, its tardy arrival gave me an excuse to "gobble like a field hand," as Mammy told Scarlet in "Gone With the Wind," once it did.
Since I was running behind, I was happy to see the organizer of tonight's documentary screening of "Turn It Around: The Story of East Bay Punk" standing outside the Visual Arts Center when I pulled up. Surely if he was out here, the movie hadn't begun inside.
"Thanks for coming, Karen," he said as I walked inside. Just doing my part for punk, I assured him.
Upstairs, I found the expected group of aging punk rockers I always encounter at punk-related events. Plenty of familiar faces, although not many I know by name.
Two I did know were newlyweds, but he and I also share a love of shoegaze and reverb, so we dished on the new Slowdive album when I stopped to say hello.
Narrated by Iggy Pop, who brought both attitude and gravitas to the reading, the film was a pretty in-depth look at the music scene that sprung up across the bay from San Francisco beginning in 1981. Plenty of archival footage fleshed out the many talking heads, who had aged at various rates, if you know what I mean.
Musician after musician explained to the camera that punk music was their thing not just because they loved its energy but also because it f*cked with people. One guy pegged it as so compelling because it was all these young people singing with such despair.
The film went deep into the scene - it was over 2 1/2 hours long - but moved as quickly as a punk song so it never felt laborious. It had to be detailed to get to all the many bands and offshoots of punk.
En route to the bathroom at intermission, I ran into the musician and nerd who shares my passion for history, poetry and all things intellectual. Being a post-punk musician now, he was most stoked about the upcoming part of the film that dealt with 1987 to 1994, the years when he'd discovered this music.
When we got to talking about our summers, he shared that his had been overtaken by his two latest projects: reading all the Southern Gothic novels he could lay his hands on and watching all the Woody Allen movies he'd never seen.
As he explained it, he really hadn't had time to do much else besides those two things.
But when his face really lighted up was when he told me that directly after the film tonight, he was leaving for Corolla and bringing Cormac McCarthy's "Blood Meridian" along with his swimsuit and suntan lotion.
Sounds like an epic beach read to me.
It was some time during the part of the film about 1987 - "when punk became safe for little kids and girls" - that I began to hear overblown Yanni-like music playing softly behind me in sharp contrast to the screaming on the screen.
I looked around several times, and every time the movie had a quiet moment (there was, needless to say, a lot of hardcore thrashing to be heard) I became more certain somebody needed to turn something off.
Only once others began glaring at her did she bother to check her purse and turn off the volume on her phone. Some aging punkers are still learning their technology, it seems.
There were so many great punk band names like Kamala and the Karnivores mentioned, but it would be hard to top the Yeastie Girlz because, well, because they named themselves the Yeastie Girlz. They not only had a message, they "played" tampons on stage to songs like "Ovary Action."
I'm telling you kids, it was a more creative time.
And, yes, as you might expect, they fall under the heading of vaginacore. Just doing my part to get the word out.
If there was one takeaway from tonight, it was that vaginacore is a musical genre. I'm not even sure how that could surprise me, but it does.
My evening began at My Noodle & Bar, where the door was open to the beautiful night and the music was set to pure '90s: Alannis Morrisette, Soul Asylum, Spin Doctors. You could practically smell the flannel shirts and not in a good way.
I'd barely taken a stool for dinner when I heard my name called. In between the new decor of glass bottles holding herbs and greens along the bar (I like it), I could see Mac on the other side. It was strangely weird since we've never run into each other out before.
Behind me, conversation flew between the occupants of a table of eight.
Doesn't everyone go to Target on Saturdays?
He's got the handwriting of a 32-year old woman!
Got it! I'll send copies to you.
When their food began arriving, no one touched it. It was only once the older looking man said a prolonged grace in a language I didn't recognize that people began to pick up their chopsticks and eat.
Meanwhile, I had a documentary to make at 8:00, so when the bartender asked me if I wanted anything besides water, I declined. Funny, but he laid the drink menu back in front of me anyway.
"In case you change your mind," he says. "That no didn't sound very confident." Cheeky devil.
A group of 4 sat down at the corner of the bar (I pegged them for medical students) and began discussing what to order for dinner. When the bartender answered their question about making a dish as spicy as requested, it threw them into a collective tizzy.
"Now I have to read the whole menu all over again cause I didn't bother reading the hot ones!" one young woman whined as the others nodded. Her friend was too busy looking at her phone when their order was being taken to give hers, but you can believe the once off the phone, she wanted her order taken pronto.
It doesn't work that way, Snowflake.
Because I'd arrived right as the restaurant had filled up, the kitchen was immediately slammed and my broccoli and chicken entree took a while to show up. On the positive side, its tardy arrival gave me an excuse to "gobble like a field hand," as Mammy told Scarlet in "Gone With the Wind," once it did.
Since I was running behind, I was happy to see the organizer of tonight's documentary screening of "Turn It Around: The Story of East Bay Punk" standing outside the Visual Arts Center when I pulled up. Surely if he was out here, the movie hadn't begun inside.
"Thanks for coming, Karen," he said as I walked inside. Just doing my part for punk, I assured him.
Upstairs, I found the expected group of aging punk rockers I always encounter at punk-related events. Plenty of familiar faces, although not many I know by name.
Two I did know were newlyweds, but he and I also share a love of shoegaze and reverb, so we dished on the new Slowdive album when I stopped to say hello.
Narrated by Iggy Pop, who brought both attitude and gravitas to the reading, the film was a pretty in-depth look at the music scene that sprung up across the bay from San Francisco beginning in 1981. Plenty of archival footage fleshed out the many talking heads, who had aged at various rates, if you know what I mean.
Musician after musician explained to the camera that punk music was their thing not just because they loved its energy but also because it f*cked with people. One guy pegged it as so compelling because it was all these young people singing with such despair.
The film went deep into the scene - it was over 2 1/2 hours long - but moved as quickly as a punk song so it never felt laborious. It had to be detailed to get to all the many bands and offshoots of punk.
En route to the bathroom at intermission, I ran into the musician and nerd who shares my passion for history, poetry and all things intellectual. Being a post-punk musician now, he was most stoked about the upcoming part of the film that dealt with 1987 to 1994, the years when he'd discovered this music.
When we got to talking about our summers, he shared that his had been overtaken by his two latest projects: reading all the Southern Gothic novels he could lay his hands on and watching all the Woody Allen movies he'd never seen.
As he explained it, he really hadn't had time to do much else besides those two things.
But when his face really lighted up was when he told me that directly after the film tonight, he was leaving for Corolla and bringing Cormac McCarthy's "Blood Meridian" along with his swimsuit and suntan lotion.
Sounds like an epic beach read to me.
It was some time during the part of the film about 1987 - "when punk became safe for little kids and girls" - that I began to hear overblown Yanni-like music playing softly behind me in sharp contrast to the screaming on the screen.
I looked around several times, and every time the movie had a quiet moment (there was, needless to say, a lot of hardcore thrashing to be heard) I became more certain somebody needed to turn something off.
Only once others began glaring at her did she bother to check her purse and turn off the volume on her phone. Some aging punkers are still learning their technology, it seems.
There were so many great punk band names like Kamala and the Karnivores mentioned, but it would be hard to top the Yeastie Girlz because, well, because they named themselves the Yeastie Girlz. They not only had a message, they "played" tampons on stage to songs like "Ovary Action."
I'm telling you kids, it was a more creative time.
And, yes, as you might expect, they fall under the heading of vaginacore. Just doing my part to get the word out.
Saturday, August 26, 2017
Endlessly Entertaining
You don't jump right into the Man Cave.
I'm sure you could, although it's the kind of place best approached in stages, preferably after a couple of stops. After imbibing has gotten underway. After multiple discussions have led to music and it becomes clear that only hearing can prove your point. After the restaurant you're in wants to close down.
Also because limited night time light is kindest to a basement under-dusted and overstuffed with old furniture, comic books both vintage and modern, and scads of records and CDs. A place well-stocked with wine and booze.
Better to begin the evening in full daylight, say at Saison market where our center table means everyone can find us drinking a bottle of Laurent Miguel Pere et Fils Rose.
A comedian friend is having a long form discussion of improv jumping off points with a fellow comedian (when she shares her idea, I remind her that using teen-aged journals has already been done...by them). A foodie friend says hello, telling me my dress looks like the colors of rainbow sherbet (a fact I can verify now that I keep rainbow sherbet in my freezer at all times). A favorite server comes over to see how our eclipse-watching trip went (she'd sold us the bottles of Rose that accompanied us to the beach).
Let's just say that if I was trying to have an illicit affair, I wouldn't go to Saison market because the chance of not running into a familiar face is slim to none. And as my Richmond grandmother liked to say, "Slim just left town."
We left there to meet Holmes and Beloved at Lucy's two blocks away. Holmes and I had both suggested Lucy's independently of each other, so we took it as a sign. Besides, who can't appreciate a restaurant that gets its beef from the co-owner's family farm on the Northern Neck?
As both Holmes and Beloved made orgasmic sounds about their specials of filet mignon, I reminded them why they tasted so good: happy cows. Having actually been to the farm and seen how cows spend their days there, I think it's safe to say they're loving life right up until they become a menu special.
But even non-bovine dishes got an enthusiastic thumbs-up from our booth, from burrata and local tomatoes in a pesto pistou (the dish tasted like summer in every bite) to farm fritters of corn, cheddar and scallions (although, to be fair, I rarely meet a fritter I don't love) to an arugula salad dotted with grapes, fennel and Gorgonzola. And for the former non-seafood eater, the local fish of the day special of mahi mahi with corn, tomato and black bean salsa kicked butts and took numbers.
It was while we were devouring desserts - a flourless chocolate torte and a housemade ice cream sandwich - that the topic of music kept coming up, hardly a surprise given that there were two musicians and two former disco devotees at the table.
Let's just say that viola jokes abounded. When I thanked Holmes for having gifted me with one of his four copies of the Brass Ring's "The Disadvantages of You," my current favorite album-to-dress-by, Beloved said they hadn't listened to it yet. Holmes begged to differ.
It seemed like the only way to clear the matter up was to head directly to the Man Cave, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. And we did.
It's the '70s all over again in the Man Cave, which boasts a Formica-covered bar to which we sidled up in four bar stools that may have seen better days.
Under the bar itself is shelving holding part of Holmes' record collection (all of which, by the way, dates to pre-1990) while the rest of the collection resides in a nearby room. But all his favorites are at an easy arm's length reach, on or under the Formica.
Vibes reigned supreme, first with the Brass Ring and then with Herb Alpert's Tijuana Brass on the iconic "Whipped Cream and Other Delights," which happened to include the theme from "The Dating Game."
Beyond "A Taste of Honey," the latter spurred a conversation about how almost everyone's Dad had that album and we were all pretty sure it had a lot to do with the shaving cream-covered woman on the album cover.
Too harsh? Okay, maybe Dads were the target demographic for Americanized easy listening brass music back then and the cover played no role. As if.
The later the evening got (and the more Chateau d'Aqueria Tavel Rose consumed), the further afield the music got from our starting point.
Eager to show off his favorite cover of "Woodstock," Holmes played Matthew Southern Comfort doing it to universal approval. And while it's a Joni Mitchell song, no one was making a case for her version. But I also thought that it would be appropriate to play the Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young cover since we'd all grown up hearing that as the standard.
When Holmes announced that "Deja Vu," the album with "Woodstock" was elsewhere, Beloved offered to track it down in the next room. When she seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time, he called out asking how she was doing in finding it.
"I found "Green Tambourine!" she called back, sounding pretty excited.
The look on his face was priceless, equal parts impatience (why can't others understand his filing system) and a reluctance to move (but with no choice since only he could save the day).
Shaking his head, he headed into the other room, muttering, "She's in the Byrds! She oughta be looking under Crosby!" And while he set off to assist, we never actually saw the record or got around to listening to it.
Such are the tangents and detours we inevitably take during these marathon listening parties where Beloved occasionally sits in as DJ. These days, with a savvy fourth added to our long-time trio, there's the added benefit of music trivia about pedal steel players and discussions about who played which guitars.
Unable to compete with their obscure knowledge, I nonetheless threw my two cents' worth in by sharing Joni Mitchell's inspiration for "Free Man in Paris" (David Geffen) while listening to "Court and Spark." Hey, it got me a few points.
During the course of the evening's fun, Holmes got two phone calls from friends, making me wonder who in the world calls a friend post 10:00 on a Friday night? For that matter, should cell phones even be allowed to disturb the zen of a place as frozen in time as the Man Cave?
And while we had no use for "The Dating Game," everyone there being quite happily paired up, we were left with one lingering musical question.
If a taste of honey isn't sweeter than wine, does that mean whipped cream and other delights are? Discuss.
I'm sure you could, although it's the kind of place best approached in stages, preferably after a couple of stops. After imbibing has gotten underway. After multiple discussions have led to music and it becomes clear that only hearing can prove your point. After the restaurant you're in wants to close down.
Also because limited night time light is kindest to a basement under-dusted and overstuffed with old furniture, comic books both vintage and modern, and scads of records and CDs. A place well-stocked with wine and booze.
Better to begin the evening in full daylight, say at Saison market where our center table means everyone can find us drinking a bottle of Laurent Miguel Pere et Fils Rose.
A comedian friend is having a long form discussion of improv jumping off points with a fellow comedian (when she shares her idea, I remind her that using teen-aged journals has already been done...by them). A foodie friend says hello, telling me my dress looks like the colors of rainbow sherbet (a fact I can verify now that I keep rainbow sherbet in my freezer at all times). A favorite server comes over to see how our eclipse-watching trip went (she'd sold us the bottles of Rose that accompanied us to the beach).
Let's just say that if I was trying to have an illicit affair, I wouldn't go to Saison market because the chance of not running into a familiar face is slim to none. And as my Richmond grandmother liked to say, "Slim just left town."
We left there to meet Holmes and Beloved at Lucy's two blocks away. Holmes and I had both suggested Lucy's independently of each other, so we took it as a sign. Besides, who can't appreciate a restaurant that gets its beef from the co-owner's family farm on the Northern Neck?
As both Holmes and Beloved made orgasmic sounds about their specials of filet mignon, I reminded them why they tasted so good: happy cows. Having actually been to the farm and seen how cows spend their days there, I think it's safe to say they're loving life right up until they become a menu special.
But even non-bovine dishes got an enthusiastic thumbs-up from our booth, from burrata and local tomatoes in a pesto pistou (the dish tasted like summer in every bite) to farm fritters of corn, cheddar and scallions (although, to be fair, I rarely meet a fritter I don't love) to an arugula salad dotted with grapes, fennel and Gorgonzola. And for the former non-seafood eater, the local fish of the day special of mahi mahi with corn, tomato and black bean salsa kicked butts and took numbers.
It was while we were devouring desserts - a flourless chocolate torte and a housemade ice cream sandwich - that the topic of music kept coming up, hardly a surprise given that there were two musicians and two former disco devotees at the table.
Let's just say that viola jokes abounded. When I thanked Holmes for having gifted me with one of his four copies of the Brass Ring's "The Disadvantages of You," my current favorite album-to-dress-by, Beloved said they hadn't listened to it yet. Holmes begged to differ.
It seemed like the only way to clear the matter up was to head directly to the Man Cave, do not pass Go, do not collect $200. And we did.
It's the '70s all over again in the Man Cave, which boasts a Formica-covered bar to which we sidled up in four bar stools that may have seen better days.
Under the bar itself is shelving holding part of Holmes' record collection (all of which, by the way, dates to pre-1990) while the rest of the collection resides in a nearby room. But all his favorites are at an easy arm's length reach, on or under the Formica.
Vibes reigned supreme, first with the Brass Ring and then with Herb Alpert's Tijuana Brass on the iconic "Whipped Cream and Other Delights," which happened to include the theme from "The Dating Game."
Beyond "A Taste of Honey," the latter spurred a conversation about how almost everyone's Dad had that album and we were all pretty sure it had a lot to do with the shaving cream-covered woman on the album cover.
Too harsh? Okay, maybe Dads were the target demographic for Americanized easy listening brass music back then and the cover played no role. As if.
The later the evening got (and the more Chateau d'Aqueria Tavel Rose consumed), the further afield the music got from our starting point.
Eager to show off his favorite cover of "Woodstock," Holmes played Matthew Southern Comfort doing it to universal approval. And while it's a Joni Mitchell song, no one was making a case for her version. But I also thought that it would be appropriate to play the Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young cover since we'd all grown up hearing that as the standard.
When Holmes announced that "Deja Vu," the album with "Woodstock" was elsewhere, Beloved offered to track it down in the next room. When she seemed to be taking an inordinate amount of time, he called out asking how she was doing in finding it.
"I found "Green Tambourine!" she called back, sounding pretty excited.
The look on his face was priceless, equal parts impatience (why can't others understand his filing system) and a reluctance to move (but with no choice since only he could save the day).
Shaking his head, he headed into the other room, muttering, "She's in the Byrds! She oughta be looking under Crosby!" And while he set off to assist, we never actually saw the record or got around to listening to it.
Such are the tangents and detours we inevitably take during these marathon listening parties where Beloved occasionally sits in as DJ. These days, with a savvy fourth added to our long-time trio, there's the added benefit of music trivia about pedal steel players and discussions about who played which guitars.
Unable to compete with their obscure knowledge, I nonetheless threw my two cents' worth in by sharing Joni Mitchell's inspiration for "Free Man in Paris" (David Geffen) while listening to "Court and Spark." Hey, it got me a few points.
During the course of the evening's fun, Holmes got two phone calls from friends, making me wonder who in the world calls a friend post 10:00 on a Friday night? For that matter, should cell phones even be allowed to disturb the zen of a place as frozen in time as the Man Cave?
And while we had no use for "The Dating Game," everyone there being quite happily paired up, we were left with one lingering musical question.
If a taste of honey isn't sweeter than wine, does that mean whipped cream and other delights are? Discuss.
Friday, August 25, 2017
Feed Your Head
The math was off.
Three hours (of conversation) plus 20 minutes (intermission) divided by seven weeks (since we last saw each other) does not add up to nearly enough time to go deep with one of my oldest friends.
The nearly two months wasn't entirely my fault, though certainly my frequent gallivanting this summer played a part. Without divulging too much, sorry/not sorry.
But she'd also been busy, having just returned from a trip to New England where she was so eager for fall that she began needlessly wearing sweaters because she could. Even when they made her uncomfortably hot. Even when her friend mocked her.
So with one thing and another, tonight was out first chance to hang.
We began on my balcony, hydrating and watching twin moonflowers unfurl while trying to cover some of our recent trips. We'd both noticed how much the light has changed as September nears. Only I am sad about it.
From there, we moved on to Secco and tonight's cooler, drier weather meant that there were no seats on the patio, although once established at the end of the bar, the outdoors were forgotten anyway. Or maybe that was the German Rose.
We'd hit Secco during their happy hour, which attempts to aid customers in re-connecting with humanity by providing boxes in which to put your cell phone. That's right, if you box your phone, everything you eat and drink costs less, not to mention the thrill of real time conversation.
And while my friend did lock hers up, the owner pointed out that I was already ahead of the game by having no phone to lock up. Whether that should get me an even bigger deal or looks of scorn is up to the individual.
While dishing on family, friends and lovers, we also chowed down. A killer baba ganouch was taken over the top with the addition of sweet tomato relish and cotija, while the warm grilled flatbread more than did its part. I'd eat it again tomorrow.
It was an evening to discover (and correct) that my friend had never had fried squash blossoms, these arriving with crispy fried lemon, green beans and Romesco to seduce her. And what Rose drinker could be less than thrilled with a Spanish octopus and mussel escabeche with the thinnest of cucumber slices, basil and Thai chilis?
Certainly not this one.
We eavesdropped on a woman who claimed to look 28 (not even close), talked about the pleasures of a green Chartreuse party (not since the '90s for me) and questioned how some people define friendship. She asked for a beach replenishment update and I obliged.
And then we hightailed it to the Basement for TheatreLAB and Firehouse Theatre's production of "Alice."
You know, as in Wonderland and through the looking glass. Also as in, so full of youthful singing and acting talent that the effect was dazzling.
We were seated next to an older couple from Montross on the Northern Neck and it didn't take much prodding to get them talking. Big theater fans, both of them, they shared that they often went to Fredericksburg to see plays.
"In September, we're going to see 'Six Brides for Six Brothers," the woman told me excitedly. "It's seven brides and seven brothers," her husband informed her. "You're making up a play!"
When they asked if I was a native Richmonder, we found out that both the husband and I were Washingtonians and born in the same hospital. Small world.
I would have left it there, but then the husband starts quizzing me. What was the name of the bakery on Pennsylvania Avenue near 16th? What radio commercial went like this (and he began singing)? I explained I had been gone 30 years and clearly didn't have the same memories he did.
The wife tells me she had 5 children, all at the same hospital, but by two different husbands. Then she giggles and said, "And none with him" and points to Mr. D.C.
Oh, they were colorful, alright. Things only went south when the subject of renaming his Arlington alma mater (coincidentally, also that of my companion) came up and we began to see that he couldn't understand why Confederate statues must come down.
But other than that, they were sweet and obviously dedicated theater fans to have driven an hour and 20 minutes for this play, so we had to like them.
They'd picked one worth the drive. The fresh-faced cast was all in, the amount of energy expended impressive and the story charmingly told with all the anticipated lack of logic expected of a tale written while on drugs.
For that matter, they'd also executed a play with as perfect a sound quality as I've heard at a play in Richmond. Granted, the Basement is small, but that's not always been a guarantee of fabulous sound and tonight every syllable and moan came across loud and clear (all the better to appreciate the cast's stellar voices) as they belted out songs (which did occasionally drift into Disney territory).
Can I just say that it is positively life-affirming to sit in a theater and see a play with an all-female cast? Casting women in all the roles - the Caterpillar, Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum, the Mad Hatter - ensured that every strong voice, every funny line, every dramatic moment was delivered with a healthy dose of estrogen.
Hallelujah and pass the chocolate. It's enough to make a woman giddy with the rarity of it.
And let me just say that Maggie Bavolack (in a blue bobbed haircut, sunglasses and smoking a hookah) was so over-the-top hilarious as the caterpillar that some people couldn't take their eyes off of her. Charisma and attitude oozed from every blue pore on her body.
But she was only one of a strong ensemble cast who could toss off simple yet well-written lines ("Those muddy stockings, so joie de vivre!") and crack up the audience.
At intermission, a woman in line was all but swooning about the gorgeous harmonies we'd been hearing and although I agreed, I was just as taken with the clever dialog and its delivery. Someone had done a magnificent job of casting.
Of course, we all strive to cast our own lives just as ably. You find a good person like my friend and you offer them the role for life. You fit in a new person around the original cast. You ensure the estrogen level stays up for sanity's sake.
And that hot pink bandana I had on tonight? So joie de vivre.
Three hours (of conversation) plus 20 minutes (intermission) divided by seven weeks (since we last saw each other) does not add up to nearly enough time to go deep with one of my oldest friends.
The nearly two months wasn't entirely my fault, though certainly my frequent gallivanting this summer played a part. Without divulging too much, sorry/not sorry.
But she'd also been busy, having just returned from a trip to New England where she was so eager for fall that she began needlessly wearing sweaters because she could. Even when they made her uncomfortably hot. Even when her friend mocked her.
So with one thing and another, tonight was out first chance to hang.
We began on my balcony, hydrating and watching twin moonflowers unfurl while trying to cover some of our recent trips. We'd both noticed how much the light has changed as September nears. Only I am sad about it.
From there, we moved on to Secco and tonight's cooler, drier weather meant that there were no seats on the patio, although once established at the end of the bar, the outdoors were forgotten anyway. Or maybe that was the German Rose.
We'd hit Secco during their happy hour, which attempts to aid customers in re-connecting with humanity by providing boxes in which to put your cell phone. That's right, if you box your phone, everything you eat and drink costs less, not to mention the thrill of real time conversation.
And while my friend did lock hers up, the owner pointed out that I was already ahead of the game by having no phone to lock up. Whether that should get me an even bigger deal or looks of scorn is up to the individual.
While dishing on family, friends and lovers, we also chowed down. A killer baba ganouch was taken over the top with the addition of sweet tomato relish and cotija, while the warm grilled flatbread more than did its part. I'd eat it again tomorrow.
It was an evening to discover (and correct) that my friend had never had fried squash blossoms, these arriving with crispy fried lemon, green beans and Romesco to seduce her. And what Rose drinker could be less than thrilled with a Spanish octopus and mussel escabeche with the thinnest of cucumber slices, basil and Thai chilis?
Certainly not this one.
We eavesdropped on a woman who claimed to look 28 (not even close), talked about the pleasures of a green Chartreuse party (not since the '90s for me) and questioned how some people define friendship. She asked for a beach replenishment update and I obliged.
And then we hightailed it to the Basement for TheatreLAB and Firehouse Theatre's production of "Alice."
You know, as in Wonderland and through the looking glass. Also as in, so full of youthful singing and acting talent that the effect was dazzling.
We were seated next to an older couple from Montross on the Northern Neck and it didn't take much prodding to get them talking. Big theater fans, both of them, they shared that they often went to Fredericksburg to see plays.
"In September, we're going to see 'Six Brides for Six Brothers," the woman told me excitedly. "It's seven brides and seven brothers," her husband informed her. "You're making up a play!"
When they asked if I was a native Richmonder, we found out that both the husband and I were Washingtonians and born in the same hospital. Small world.
I would have left it there, but then the husband starts quizzing me. What was the name of the bakery on Pennsylvania Avenue near 16th? What radio commercial went like this (and he began singing)? I explained I had been gone 30 years and clearly didn't have the same memories he did.
The wife tells me she had 5 children, all at the same hospital, but by two different husbands. Then she giggles and said, "And none with him" and points to Mr. D.C.
Oh, they were colorful, alright. Things only went south when the subject of renaming his Arlington alma mater (coincidentally, also that of my companion) came up and we began to see that he couldn't understand why Confederate statues must come down.
But other than that, they were sweet and obviously dedicated theater fans to have driven an hour and 20 minutes for this play, so we had to like them.
They'd picked one worth the drive. The fresh-faced cast was all in, the amount of energy expended impressive and the story charmingly told with all the anticipated lack of logic expected of a tale written while on drugs.
For that matter, they'd also executed a play with as perfect a sound quality as I've heard at a play in Richmond. Granted, the Basement is small, but that's not always been a guarantee of fabulous sound and tonight every syllable and moan came across loud and clear (all the better to appreciate the cast's stellar voices) as they belted out songs (which did occasionally drift into Disney territory).
Can I just say that it is positively life-affirming to sit in a theater and see a play with an all-female cast? Casting women in all the roles - the Caterpillar, Tweedle-Dee and Tweedle-Dum, the Mad Hatter - ensured that every strong voice, every funny line, every dramatic moment was delivered with a healthy dose of estrogen.
Hallelujah and pass the chocolate. It's enough to make a woman giddy with the rarity of it.
And let me just say that Maggie Bavolack (in a blue bobbed haircut, sunglasses and smoking a hookah) was so over-the-top hilarious as the caterpillar that some people couldn't take their eyes off of her. Charisma and attitude oozed from every blue pore on her body.
But she was only one of a strong ensemble cast who could toss off simple yet well-written lines ("Those muddy stockings, so joie de vivre!") and crack up the audience.
At intermission, a woman in line was all but swooning about the gorgeous harmonies we'd been hearing and although I agreed, I was just as taken with the clever dialog and its delivery. Someone had done a magnificent job of casting.
Of course, we all strive to cast our own lives just as ably. You find a good person like my friend and you offer them the role for life. You fit in a new person around the original cast. You ensure the estrogen level stays up for sanity's sake.
And that hot pink bandana I had on tonight? So joie de vivre.
Thursday, August 24, 2017
Honeysuckle, Bittersweet
Bands or men, frequency doesn't have to equate with boredom.
As many times as I've seen the world music duo Lobo Marino - and that's a fair number over a period spanning 2010 to now - it's always different. They're changing, their music changes and the venue changes.
When I saw they were playing at Tin Pan in a listening room setting tonight, driving tosuburban hell Henrico aside, I couldn't think of a single reason not to be there. And you can be sure that when my date considered using his GPS, I offered up my direction services instead.
On arrival, he mentioned that the benefit of using me over A.I. is that my directions include stories. I'd told him I'd brought him via Patterson Avenue because its gently rolling hills feel like something that's been traversed on horses (or in carriages) for centuries.
You don't get that kind of color from Siri.
Approaching the Tin Pan, we saw the evening's stars on a low brick wall, her head in his lap. They were sharing a moment in the post-rain cool evening air, without a care for the fact that they went onstage in 45 minutes.
Jameson and Laney aren't just talented musical partners, they're the equivalent of a couple comedy act of differing personalities who play off each other effortlessly on and off stage. The unicorn head clock made of a slab of lacquered wood that they gave me for my birthday 8 years ago is a fitting metaphor for their sunny can-do attitudes.
My kind of people, in other words.
We chatted them up outside, listening as Laney talked about the pipeline activism with which they're so involved. They'd landed at the Tin Pan in an effort to treat Richmond more like they treat the other cities on tour: by trying a variety of venues to pull different crowds. It made perfect sense.
They joined us at our table inside for more banter while we ordered dinner of hummus with everything bagel sprinkles, pita and veggies and a kale salad with Gorgonzola, nuts and chicken.
After Jameson gave me a hard time about something, he reminded me that our decade of friendship allows that privilege.
"Remember that show at Gallery 5 where you asked Nathaniel and I why two musicians at a show were talking while a band played?" he asked, chuckling. "But we hadn't seen each other in so long! You were right, we should've gone outside to talk."
Smart men learn quickly.
Then they went onstage to knock the socks off the audience, many of whom seemed never to have seen them before.
"If you have any questions during the show, just raise your hand and ask," they told the undoubtedly surprised room. Who doesn't like a transparent band?
They began by explaining about the band's name and how they'd first seen the large sea lions known as lobo marino while living in South America, where they got away with anything they wanted, including holding up traffic.
Jameson recalled that they used to tell themselves that the animals were extraterrestrials who craned their necks upward in that distinctive way because they were awaiting the arrival of the mothership.
Then they played, which had to have been a revelation for anyone in the room who'd never seen a band that plays banjo, harmonium, drums with feet, mallets and sticks, guitar, bells around the ankles, mouth harp and brass jar (as a poor man's substitute for a similar instrument they couldn't afford).
And that's not even mentioning the litany of animal sounds Jameson brings to the mix.
Besides the sheer pleasure of a true listening room environment, the quieter room meant that the duo pulled out all kinds of early and acoustic material they no longer play out. I heard stuff I hadn't heard in years.
When Jameson said they were going to play the first song they ever wrote together, Laney was quick to correct him. "I didn't write it!" But that wasn't the point and "Animal Hands" is as much a delight to hear the 15th time as the first.
Before a song from the album recorded upstairs at Gallery 5, Jameson gave me a shout-out about having been there for the recording. "Her name is in the liner notes," he shares and I beam.
After he explains that he'd been the band's original lead singer, he said that once Laney found her voice, the job was hers and with good reason.
She challenged him to play a song that showed when he'd found his voice and he pulled out his mouth harp, an instrument he'd learned to play on a pilgrimage in Spain ("After Laney left me to go home") and Portugal.
"Cole, make us sound schwampy," Jameson told the sound guy. "That means reverb." And reverb was just what the mouth harp, foot-drummed song needed.
After Jameson tuned the guitar and she apologized about her playing skills, they did "The Loon," which Laney had written on a boat dock in Maine one summer after the sounds of the birds.
Every song had a story and it was a night for sharing all of that - anecdotes, activism, personal stories - in between the music. Back in 2008, I saw Yo la Tengo on tour and they did the same thing, interspersing chatter with music for a more intimate feel.
You know I love me some good conversation.
Before a song inspired by an eastern greeting, they talked about their time in Yogaville. Laney had been distressed when she discovered that men and women slept in separate dormitories and there was no hand-holding allowed. Her displeasure still simmered.
"Pretty sure all of that was on the sheet they gave us," Jameson noted wryly. "Laney didn't read it."
She ignores him and goes on to explain that they managed to sneak away and have sex at the river anyway while there. 'I can't believe you just told them that," Jameson laughed.
Asking for request, they got one but apologized in advance since they hadn't played it in eons. During an extensive instrumental part, Laney leaned in to the mic and said, "Bonus track" in a fake Siri-like voice.
Thankfully, they ended with "Holy River," a song that takes the audience to the church of the Ganges/James River and soars skyward. It's the ultimate closer.
Before the night was over, they'd invited the entire room to their squash roasting party next week and told the crowd that if they needed another dose of Lobo Marino before then, they're playing at Hardywood this weekend.
"But it'll be less talk, more rock at Hardywood," Laney warned us.
Funny, I was attracted to the fact that the audience wasn't allowed to talk and reveled in the fact that the musicians did as much talking as playing.
As my favorite cop would say, I like it. As my Grandma used to say, only boring people get bored.
Not even close.
As many times as I've seen the world music duo Lobo Marino - and that's a fair number over a period spanning 2010 to now - it's always different. They're changing, their music changes and the venue changes.
When I saw they were playing at Tin Pan in a listening room setting tonight, driving to
On arrival, he mentioned that the benefit of using me over A.I. is that my directions include stories. I'd told him I'd brought him via Patterson Avenue because its gently rolling hills feel like something that's been traversed on horses (or in carriages) for centuries.
You don't get that kind of color from Siri.
Approaching the Tin Pan, we saw the evening's stars on a low brick wall, her head in his lap. They were sharing a moment in the post-rain cool evening air, without a care for the fact that they went onstage in 45 minutes.
Jameson and Laney aren't just talented musical partners, they're the equivalent of a couple comedy act of differing personalities who play off each other effortlessly on and off stage. The unicorn head clock made of a slab of lacquered wood that they gave me for my birthday 8 years ago is a fitting metaphor for their sunny can-do attitudes.
My kind of people, in other words.
We chatted them up outside, listening as Laney talked about the pipeline activism with which they're so involved. They'd landed at the Tin Pan in an effort to treat Richmond more like they treat the other cities on tour: by trying a variety of venues to pull different crowds. It made perfect sense.
They joined us at our table inside for more banter while we ordered dinner of hummus with everything bagel sprinkles, pita and veggies and a kale salad with Gorgonzola, nuts and chicken.
After Jameson gave me a hard time about something, he reminded me that our decade of friendship allows that privilege.
"Remember that show at Gallery 5 where you asked Nathaniel and I why two musicians at a show were talking while a band played?" he asked, chuckling. "But we hadn't seen each other in so long! You were right, we should've gone outside to talk."
Smart men learn quickly.
Then they went onstage to knock the socks off the audience, many of whom seemed never to have seen them before.
"If you have any questions during the show, just raise your hand and ask," they told the undoubtedly surprised room. Who doesn't like a transparent band?
They began by explaining about the band's name and how they'd first seen the large sea lions known as lobo marino while living in South America, where they got away with anything they wanted, including holding up traffic.
Jameson recalled that they used to tell themselves that the animals were extraterrestrials who craned their necks upward in that distinctive way because they were awaiting the arrival of the mothership.
Then they played, which had to have been a revelation for anyone in the room who'd never seen a band that plays banjo, harmonium, drums with feet, mallets and sticks, guitar, bells around the ankles, mouth harp and brass jar (as a poor man's substitute for a similar instrument they couldn't afford).
And that's not even mentioning the litany of animal sounds Jameson brings to the mix.
Besides the sheer pleasure of a true listening room environment, the quieter room meant that the duo pulled out all kinds of early and acoustic material they no longer play out. I heard stuff I hadn't heard in years.
When Jameson said they were going to play the first song they ever wrote together, Laney was quick to correct him. "I didn't write it!" But that wasn't the point and "Animal Hands" is as much a delight to hear the 15th time as the first.
Before a song from the album recorded upstairs at Gallery 5, Jameson gave me a shout-out about having been there for the recording. "Her name is in the liner notes," he shares and I beam.
After he explains that he'd been the band's original lead singer, he said that once Laney found her voice, the job was hers and with good reason.
She challenged him to play a song that showed when he'd found his voice and he pulled out his mouth harp, an instrument he'd learned to play on a pilgrimage in Spain ("After Laney left me to go home") and Portugal.
"Cole, make us sound schwampy," Jameson told the sound guy. "That means reverb." And reverb was just what the mouth harp, foot-drummed song needed.
After Jameson tuned the guitar and she apologized about her playing skills, they did "The Loon," which Laney had written on a boat dock in Maine one summer after the sounds of the birds.
Every song had a story and it was a night for sharing all of that - anecdotes, activism, personal stories - in between the music. Back in 2008, I saw Yo la Tengo on tour and they did the same thing, interspersing chatter with music for a more intimate feel.
You know I love me some good conversation.
Before a song inspired by an eastern greeting, they talked about their time in Yogaville. Laney had been distressed when she discovered that men and women slept in separate dormitories and there was no hand-holding allowed. Her displeasure still simmered.
"Pretty sure all of that was on the sheet they gave us," Jameson noted wryly. "Laney didn't read it."
She ignores him and goes on to explain that they managed to sneak away and have sex at the river anyway while there. 'I can't believe you just told them that," Jameson laughed.
Asking for request, they got one but apologized in advance since they hadn't played it in eons. During an extensive instrumental part, Laney leaned in to the mic and said, "Bonus track" in a fake Siri-like voice.
Thankfully, they ended with "Holy River," a song that takes the audience to the church of the Ganges/James River and soars skyward. It's the ultimate closer.
Before the night was over, they'd invited the entire room to their squash roasting party next week and told the crowd that if they needed another dose of Lobo Marino before then, they're playing at Hardywood this weekend.
"But it'll be less talk, more rock at Hardywood," Laney warned us.
Funny, I was attracted to the fact that the audience wasn't allowed to talk and reveled in the fact that the musicians did as much talking as playing.
As my favorite cop would say, I like it. As my Grandma used to say, only boring people get bored.
Not even close.
Wednesday, August 23, 2017
Hot August Night
You have to be up to seeing certain films.
"Detroit" is one of them and when I offered Mac a choice of outdoor live music or a movie, she jumped at the latter because, as she informed me, the heat index was in the triple digits.
I hadn't bothered checking the weather since getting back from the beach, so I didn't know about all that. What I could testify to was that my afternoon had ended with a heat nap, so I wasn't going to be upset if I missed an outdoor show tonight.
But more importantly, as she pointed out, she also felt able to handle what we knew was going to be a heavy and difficult movie in the manner of "13th." We agreed that you can't go in to such a painful recreation of history if you're already having a bad day.
We ate in service of my hired mouth in a pleasantly air-conditioned restaurant before moving on to the briefest of mid-century modern architectural tours (one building) in the Museum District, landing finally at Movieland.
I'm at a decided disadvantage when it comes to violent movies (even when it's violence based on real events) given that I don't watch TV and, as a rule, avoid movies with violence. I go to talky movies, films that deal with feelings and thoughts, not beatings and shootings.
And there's a reason for that.
What this meant was that I reflexively and repeatedly closed my eyes during the harrowing scenes between cops and blacks. I'm sorry, I just can't watch that kind of inhumanity. It's gut-wrenching to see a police officer butt someone's head with a rifle or slam them into a wall, so the prolonged torture and beating scenes ensured that the audience stayed uncomfortable.
Close to tears, honestly.
When I wasn't wincing at how the incident in the Algiers Hotel unfolded during the 1967 riots in Detroit, I was learning of the Dramatics' role in it all, having been at the Algiers that night and some of the band members among the tortured.
As a long-time fan of the band - their 1971 debut, "Whatcha See Is Whatcha Get," gets regular spins on my turntable - I'd never heard a word about their role in the police brutality incidents that formed the heart of the film's story.
I've since learned that I need to read "The Algiers Hotel Incident" to know more and I intend to.
Walking out, Mac and I talked about how uncomfortable the film had made us and it wasn't much of a leap to see parallels to some of today's policing methods. If it's terrifying for me to think how little has changed in 50 years, I can't wrap my head around how difficult it must be for those more directly affected.
Lean into the difficult conversations, a wise person once told the two of us at a community conversation about race. It should feel unpleasant because what's been allowed to happen in this country is worse than unpleasant. It's a travesty.
I know it's a luxury to wait till you're up to see a film that brings you down. But see it we must.
"Detroit" is one of them and when I offered Mac a choice of outdoor live music or a movie, she jumped at the latter because, as she informed me, the heat index was in the triple digits.
I hadn't bothered checking the weather since getting back from the beach, so I didn't know about all that. What I could testify to was that my afternoon had ended with a heat nap, so I wasn't going to be upset if I missed an outdoor show tonight.
But more importantly, as she pointed out, she also felt able to handle what we knew was going to be a heavy and difficult movie in the manner of "13th." We agreed that you can't go in to such a painful recreation of history if you're already having a bad day.
We ate in service of my hired mouth in a pleasantly air-conditioned restaurant before moving on to the briefest of mid-century modern architectural tours (one building) in the Museum District, landing finally at Movieland.
I'm at a decided disadvantage when it comes to violent movies (even when it's violence based on real events) given that I don't watch TV and, as a rule, avoid movies with violence. I go to talky movies, films that deal with feelings and thoughts, not beatings and shootings.
And there's a reason for that.
What this meant was that I reflexively and repeatedly closed my eyes during the harrowing scenes between cops and blacks. I'm sorry, I just can't watch that kind of inhumanity. It's gut-wrenching to see a police officer butt someone's head with a rifle or slam them into a wall, so the prolonged torture and beating scenes ensured that the audience stayed uncomfortable.
Close to tears, honestly.
When I wasn't wincing at how the incident in the Algiers Hotel unfolded during the 1967 riots in Detroit, I was learning of the Dramatics' role in it all, having been at the Algiers that night and some of the band members among the tortured.
As a long-time fan of the band - their 1971 debut, "Whatcha See Is Whatcha Get," gets regular spins on my turntable - I'd never heard a word about their role in the police brutality incidents that formed the heart of the film's story.
I've since learned that I need to read "The Algiers Hotel Incident" to know more and I intend to.
Walking out, Mac and I talked about how uncomfortable the film had made us and it wasn't much of a leap to see parallels to some of today's policing methods. If it's terrifying for me to think how little has changed in 50 years, I can't wrap my head around how difficult it must be for those more directly affected.
Lean into the difficult conversations, a wise person once told the two of us at a community conversation about race. It should feel unpleasant because what's been allowed to happen in this country is worse than unpleasant. It's a travesty.
I know it's a luxury to wait till you're up to see a film that brings you down. But see it we must.
Tuesday, August 22, 2017
Faith and Delivery
I'm the nerd who put together an eclipse kit to take on the road.
Since viewing glasses were impossible to come by, I let the Internets show me the way. Let's face it, they were full of ways to watch the big event without searing your retinas (although you'd never know it by the leader of the free world staring un-shielded at the sun).
I'd crafted a pinhole camera from a box of baking mix. I had Saltines and slotted spoons to use against sheets of white paper.
Let's just say I was ready for my science experiment close-up.
The unpleasant traffic on I-64 sent us scurrying for Route 60 en route to Sandbridge and bigger skies to watch the show. Our alternate route turned out to be a hoot for my date who'd lived and gone to high school in Newport News and enjoyed the trip down Memory Lane.
Past Don and Dean's produce stand, which, I was informed, has been around at various locations since his youth. Past Di Maria's Seafood which had held no appeal for the non-seafood eater he once was. Past Faith & Delivery, an outreach ministry in a strip mall.
We stopped at Bandido's Taco Truck to get fish tacos and chicken burritos for lunch and the place was uncharacteristically quiet. "We were slammed busy until 1:00!" the girl inside told us. So we were ten minutes behind the eclipse crowd, it seemed.
The beach was a happening place, although probably not any more so than any gorgeous day in mid-August. There seemed to be just as many people frolicking in the surf as sitting facing the sun with special glasses on, so clearly not everyone was here to obsess over science.
We set up camp and were savoring our lunch when a woman came running over excitedly, her phone extended, telling us we had to look at something.
Frankly, I wasn't expecting it to be a photo of the eclipse and I really hadn't wanted my first sighting to be on some stranger's phone. Or anyone's phone, for that matter.
Fortunately, camped out directly between us and the Atlantic Ocean were two women with eclipse glasses and all I had to do was walk toward them with a smile to be offered the use of them. My breathless "Holy cow!" got my companion at my side in record time and we ogled the eclipse shamelessly through borrowed glasses.
"Come back when it's at its peak and use them again!" this kindly stranger insisted. Will do.
In the meantime, we pulled out the pinhole camera and began figuring out the angle to hold it to get the sharpest image. When it showed up, it was almost as startling as it had been seeing it through the glasses.
It was enough for the glasses owner to come over smiling and ask to use our equipment. My meager crafting skills were helping make friends of strangers.
Between the pinhole camera and the glasses, we watched the moon move across the sun until it stopped being a show, but we also used the beach itself to assess the changes in light and shadow.
During the eclipse, our unusually sharp shadows on the sand had a distinct halo around them. And the daylight was odd, too, not at all like what it would normally be on a sunny August day at mid-afternoon. Kind of an ghostly bluish light like one of those energy-efficient compact florescent bulbs. Eerie.
We watched as the shadows and light returned to normal before setting out on a walk on sand so hard you could ride a bike on it, which was neither of our memories from our walk along the same stretch last month.
Even better, the ocean was as ideal a temperature as could be hoped for, just cool enough to be inviting and warm enough to stay in indefinitely.
We spent a majority of the day bathing in the ocean - there's really no better way to put it - which involved alternating between lolling in the gently rolling surf and drying out in our chairs under the umbrellas with a strong southerly breeze delivering whiffs of salt-brined air.
Some chair time is absolutely necessary, else where would we have toasted the eclipse with Laurent Miguel Pere et Fils Rose and eaten handfuls of watermelon?
It was a day to rinse and repeat until we were prune-fingered and toed and cooled to our cores.
Only after 97% of the beach had emptied out did we reluctantly pack up the pinhole and retreat to the showers. Staying on once darkness settled had its appeal, but Margie and Ray's Crab Shack wasn't going to stay open all night and we had beach-sized appetites after our day outside.
The crabs I cracked were meaty and good-sized, my date's Corvina was fresh off the boat and if there was a better place to watch the night arrive, we weren't there.
And while we may have been outside the path of totality and there are no pinhole camera pictures to prove it, I can assure you that no hearts were eclipsed over the course of a satisfyingly successful scientific day.
Absent a virgin, only a box of baking mix was sacrificed to the sun and moon gods. It seemed to be enough.
Since viewing glasses were impossible to come by, I let the Internets show me the way. Let's face it, they were full of ways to watch the big event without searing your retinas (although you'd never know it by the leader of the free world staring un-shielded at the sun).
I'd crafted a pinhole camera from a box of baking mix. I had Saltines and slotted spoons to use against sheets of white paper.
Let's just say I was ready for my science experiment close-up.
The unpleasant traffic on I-64 sent us scurrying for Route 60 en route to Sandbridge and bigger skies to watch the show. Our alternate route turned out to be a hoot for my date who'd lived and gone to high school in Newport News and enjoyed the trip down Memory Lane.
Past Don and Dean's produce stand, which, I was informed, has been around at various locations since his youth. Past Di Maria's Seafood which had held no appeal for the non-seafood eater he once was. Past Faith & Delivery, an outreach ministry in a strip mall.
We stopped at Bandido's Taco Truck to get fish tacos and chicken burritos for lunch and the place was uncharacteristically quiet. "We were slammed busy until 1:00!" the girl inside told us. So we were ten minutes behind the eclipse crowd, it seemed.
The beach was a happening place, although probably not any more so than any gorgeous day in mid-August. There seemed to be just as many people frolicking in the surf as sitting facing the sun with special glasses on, so clearly not everyone was here to obsess over science.
We set up camp and were savoring our lunch when a woman came running over excitedly, her phone extended, telling us we had to look at something.
Frankly, I wasn't expecting it to be a photo of the eclipse and I really hadn't wanted my first sighting to be on some stranger's phone. Or anyone's phone, for that matter.
Fortunately, camped out directly between us and the Atlantic Ocean were two women with eclipse glasses and all I had to do was walk toward them with a smile to be offered the use of them. My breathless "Holy cow!" got my companion at my side in record time and we ogled the eclipse shamelessly through borrowed glasses.
"Come back when it's at its peak and use them again!" this kindly stranger insisted. Will do.
In the meantime, we pulled out the pinhole camera and began figuring out the angle to hold it to get the sharpest image. When it showed up, it was almost as startling as it had been seeing it through the glasses.
It was enough for the glasses owner to come over smiling and ask to use our equipment. My meager crafting skills were helping make friends of strangers.
Between the pinhole camera and the glasses, we watched the moon move across the sun until it stopped being a show, but we also used the beach itself to assess the changes in light and shadow.
During the eclipse, our unusually sharp shadows on the sand had a distinct halo around them. And the daylight was odd, too, not at all like what it would normally be on a sunny August day at mid-afternoon. Kind of an ghostly bluish light like one of those energy-efficient compact florescent bulbs. Eerie.
We watched as the shadows and light returned to normal before setting out on a walk on sand so hard you could ride a bike on it, which was neither of our memories from our walk along the same stretch last month.
Even better, the ocean was as ideal a temperature as could be hoped for, just cool enough to be inviting and warm enough to stay in indefinitely.
We spent a majority of the day bathing in the ocean - there's really no better way to put it - which involved alternating between lolling in the gently rolling surf and drying out in our chairs under the umbrellas with a strong southerly breeze delivering whiffs of salt-brined air.
Some chair time is absolutely necessary, else where would we have toasted the eclipse with Laurent Miguel Pere et Fils Rose and eaten handfuls of watermelon?
It was a day to rinse and repeat until we were prune-fingered and toed and cooled to our cores.
Only after 97% of the beach had emptied out did we reluctantly pack up the pinhole and retreat to the showers. Staying on once darkness settled had its appeal, but Margie and Ray's Crab Shack wasn't going to stay open all night and we had beach-sized appetites after our day outside.
The crabs I cracked were meaty and good-sized, my date's Corvina was fresh off the boat and if there was a better place to watch the night arrive, we weren't there.
And while we may have been outside the path of totality and there are no pinhole camera pictures to prove it, I can assure you that no hearts were eclipsed over the course of a satisfyingly successful scientific day.
Absent a virgin, only a box of baking mix was sacrificed to the sun and moon gods. It seemed to be enough.
Monday, August 21, 2017
Party with Stargazers in Vase
Please be our guest for cocktails and a summer supper
6 p.m.
Heavens knows, it wasn't my intention to be that guest.
I mean, sure, I showed up at 6 on the dot because that's when the invitation said, but I honestly didn't think I'd be the very first one at the party. The panicked-looking host flew around doing last minute prep while I launched a theater conversation with the man of the house.
Thank goodness we can always fall back on shrill singing voices, false marketing and playing to stereotypes rather than simply being generically catty.
We were just dissecting "The View Upstairs" which we'd both seen this weekend when we were joined by a madras jacket-wearing theater lover who'd just this minute come from seeing it. As with the other conversations I'd had about the play, it boiled down to age whether you took offense to how '70s gay men and millennials were portrayed.
Both seemed awfully recognizable to me, but then I'm a cis-gendered Baby Boomer woman, so what do I know?
A nice surprise was the wine rep I used to spend time with, whom I hadn't run into in eons. Since I see her so infrequently these days, I had no shame in corralling her for some vigorous catch-up sessions. She wanted to hear if I was seeing anybody and I was curious about all the obscure river beaches she frequents.
Both of us got good information.
I met a well-dressed man who lived in the house he'd grown up in on northside and still loved the neighborhood. Obligingly, I gave him an earful of reasons when he inquired if he should eat at L'Opossum for the first time.
It was hardly surprising that the topic of the evening was tomorrow's eclipse and one guy shared that his entire company had ordered eclipse glasses and were planning to spend the afternoon on the building's roof, the better to experience it.
When I asked if the boss had authorized the purchase, he scoffed. "He doesn't even know there's an eclipse!" That seems impossible, but okay. Hell, the Washington Post had an entire section in today's paper about the history, science and hacks of eclipses.
One of the guys serving looked familiar (also eerily like Matt LeBlanc) and when I asked why, he named off 7 or 8 restaurants where he'd worked, all of which I'd been to. "You're Karen, right?" he asked, although I wouldn't have guessed we'd been on a first name basis.
You never know who you've forgotten.
Our host had obviously been cooking for days, resulting in platters, chafing dishes and trays of food laid out in four locations to encourage circulation and overeating.
I popped a pimento cheese crostini, downed enough shrimp to qualify for a shrimp cocktail and made small talk with a woman who was taking a bullet for a friend who eschewed pork by eating a bacon-wrapped NY strip. The supper itself featured a pasta dish, a mixed vegetable medley and a grilled teriyaki salmon, all more than ably executed and fabulous tasting.
People broke into small groups while we ate supper and my female trio set up shop in the front window to discourse on our ties to the hosts, why we allowed ourselves to fall for the perm craze in the '80s and the joys of city living.
One woman shared that she and her husband had moved to First and Grace Streets in the late '80s, a time when few people were choosing to live in the area. Now that she and her husband are empty nesters, they're thinking of moving back downtown, so why wouldn't I sing the praises of my centrally-located neighborhood?
Sweet tooth types were rewarded with a dessert buffet of pineapple upside down cake, trifle and chocolate pate with fresh strawberries. When my friend asked what was in the chocolate pate after I ate mine, I said all I could taste was chocolate and butter. When the host stopped by our group, she asked him about it and he confirmed it was nothing more than chocolate and butter with crushed hazelnuts on top.
Other than a sprinkle of sea salt, it couldn't have been any more decadent.
When the wine rep was asked her favorite wine, she responded with "bubbles," specifically Cremant de Bourgogne and no one was going to argue with that. What was truly wonderful was that one of the servers showed up not two minutes later with a glass of it for her and, once he saw the interest in my eyes, one for me as well.
We toasted the eclipse and the times in a woman's life when she trades her responsibilities for more personal indulgences because she's earned it.
And, no, we're not just talking chocolate and butter here.
6 p.m.
Heavens knows, it wasn't my intention to be that guest.
I mean, sure, I showed up at 6 on the dot because that's when the invitation said, but I honestly didn't think I'd be the very first one at the party. The panicked-looking host flew around doing last minute prep while I launched a theater conversation with the man of the house.
Thank goodness we can always fall back on shrill singing voices, false marketing and playing to stereotypes rather than simply being generically catty.
We were just dissecting "The View Upstairs" which we'd both seen this weekend when we were joined by a madras jacket-wearing theater lover who'd just this minute come from seeing it. As with the other conversations I'd had about the play, it boiled down to age whether you took offense to how '70s gay men and millennials were portrayed.
Both seemed awfully recognizable to me, but then I'm a cis-gendered Baby Boomer woman, so what do I know?
A nice surprise was the wine rep I used to spend time with, whom I hadn't run into in eons. Since I see her so infrequently these days, I had no shame in corralling her for some vigorous catch-up sessions. She wanted to hear if I was seeing anybody and I was curious about all the obscure river beaches she frequents.
Both of us got good information.
I met a well-dressed man who lived in the house he'd grown up in on northside and still loved the neighborhood. Obligingly, I gave him an earful of reasons when he inquired if he should eat at L'Opossum for the first time.
It was hardly surprising that the topic of the evening was tomorrow's eclipse and one guy shared that his entire company had ordered eclipse glasses and were planning to spend the afternoon on the building's roof, the better to experience it.
When I asked if the boss had authorized the purchase, he scoffed. "He doesn't even know there's an eclipse!" That seems impossible, but okay. Hell, the Washington Post had an entire section in today's paper about the history, science and hacks of eclipses.
One of the guys serving looked familiar (also eerily like Matt LeBlanc) and when I asked why, he named off 7 or 8 restaurants where he'd worked, all of which I'd been to. "You're Karen, right?" he asked, although I wouldn't have guessed we'd been on a first name basis.
You never know who you've forgotten.
Our host had obviously been cooking for days, resulting in platters, chafing dishes and trays of food laid out in four locations to encourage circulation and overeating.
I popped a pimento cheese crostini, downed enough shrimp to qualify for a shrimp cocktail and made small talk with a woman who was taking a bullet for a friend who eschewed pork by eating a bacon-wrapped NY strip. The supper itself featured a pasta dish, a mixed vegetable medley and a grilled teriyaki salmon, all more than ably executed and fabulous tasting.
People broke into small groups while we ate supper and my female trio set up shop in the front window to discourse on our ties to the hosts, why we allowed ourselves to fall for the perm craze in the '80s and the joys of city living.
One woman shared that she and her husband had moved to First and Grace Streets in the late '80s, a time when few people were choosing to live in the area. Now that she and her husband are empty nesters, they're thinking of moving back downtown, so why wouldn't I sing the praises of my centrally-located neighborhood?
Sweet tooth types were rewarded with a dessert buffet of pineapple upside down cake, trifle and chocolate pate with fresh strawberries. When my friend asked what was in the chocolate pate after I ate mine, I said all I could taste was chocolate and butter. When the host stopped by our group, she asked him about it and he confirmed it was nothing more than chocolate and butter with crushed hazelnuts on top.
Other than a sprinkle of sea salt, it couldn't have been any more decadent.
When the wine rep was asked her favorite wine, she responded with "bubbles," specifically Cremant de Bourgogne and no one was going to argue with that. What was truly wonderful was that one of the servers showed up not two minutes later with a glass of it for her and, once he saw the interest in my eyes, one for me as well.
We toasted the eclipse and the times in a woman's life when she trades her responsibilities for more personal indulgences because she's earned it.
And, no, we're not just talking chocolate and butter here.
Sunday, August 20, 2017
Livin' Large
After a dozen or so years, I've got the hang of the Down Home Family Reunion.
Truthfully, it couldn't be simpler. The festival takes place two blocks away and all it requires is carrying a chair and a beverage.
I got there just as the organizer was chiding the crowd about their fixation on the headliner, which she saw as a lack of respect for all the other performers. Okay, fair enough.
Next to me, a woman with a Wells Fargo fan began complaining about the humidity and lack of breeze. "I want to go home and take a shower and sit in the air conditioning," she whined.
Rather than listening to live music? Clearly we have nothing in common, friend.
Instead she hung around for comedian Micah "Bam Bam" White, although she was unimpressed, observing, "He's not very funny, is he?"
Actually, his humor about the difference in how historically black colleges hold a football game versus white colleges was pretty hilarious to me. He did an imitation of a half time show and mocked how black vocalists, unlike white ones, never just sing the words on the page. According to him, they testify, they bend notes, they stretch things out.
Yep, and that's what we like about it.
Next up was Full Power Blues, a D.C. blues band led by a woman named Mama Moon, who welcomed the crowd, saying, "Welcome to full moon music!"
And, just as Bam Bam had noted, she and the band testified, they bent notes, they stretched things out.
After they finished, a lone singer named Shep (who will apparently be performing at the Folk Fest this fall) came out to do "A Change is Gonna Come," making for one of the more moving parts of the evening.
In between sets, a DJ played music that defined the demographic of the crowd: "One Nation Under a Groove," "Super Freaky" and "Higher Ground." I know because I sit squarely in that demographic.
A guy came over and sat down near me, striking up a conversation by asking if I was having a good time. Sure was. While the Elegba Folklore Society's performance group played, sang and danced (its leader proclaiming, "If you can walk, you can dance!"), he went on to explain African drumming to me as each drum beat meaning a different word.
When I said I did know that much, he changed tactics. "Do you smoke weed?' he asked blithely despite the cops a few feet away. I guess since I already knew about African drumming, he just assumed I was cool that way, too.
Or maybe it was that I was still wearing sunglasses after dark. I'd tried taking them off, but the park was lit too brightly and the whole scene looked less tawdry with shades on.
What I'm saying is, no one needs to see a fryer lit up. "Someone left their phone at the funnel cake booth," Bam Bam announced between sets. "If you left your phone, go get it now!"
It wasn't me, so I headed down to the row of Porta-Johns, where I found an entirely different party going on. A row of motorcycles, many strung with LED lights, was holding court near the outdoor bathrooms and Prince was blaring from a boombox.
Clearly they didn't need any stinkin' live music.
As the stage was being prepped for DC go-go/funk band EU (Experience Unlimited for the uninitiated), Bam Bam came out and announced that activist Dick Gregory had "transitioned." I've never understood using euphemisms for death. The man died, so just say died.
A collective groan went up from the crowd.
The members of EU showed up onstage wearing all white and ready to party. Leader Sugar Bear began exhorting the crowd immediately. "Get up, Richmond! Y'all got to get up!" We did.
Weaving in classics such as "Family Affair," "Shake It Like a White Girl" and "It's Your Thing," the 7-piece band showed off their smooth choreography, still strong voices and vintage showmanship. Even better, they looked to be having a ball doing it.
When they got to their set closer and biggest hit, "Da Butt," you better believe we - young and old - were following Sugar Bear's directive to, "Shake what your Mama gave you!"
No regular at the Down Home Family Reunion has to be told that twice.
Truthfully, it couldn't be simpler. The festival takes place two blocks away and all it requires is carrying a chair and a beverage.
I got there just as the organizer was chiding the crowd about their fixation on the headliner, which she saw as a lack of respect for all the other performers. Okay, fair enough.
Next to me, a woman with a Wells Fargo fan began complaining about the humidity and lack of breeze. "I want to go home and take a shower and sit in the air conditioning," she whined.
Rather than listening to live music? Clearly we have nothing in common, friend.
Instead she hung around for comedian Micah "Bam Bam" White, although she was unimpressed, observing, "He's not very funny, is he?"
Actually, his humor about the difference in how historically black colleges hold a football game versus white colleges was pretty hilarious to me. He did an imitation of a half time show and mocked how black vocalists, unlike white ones, never just sing the words on the page. According to him, they testify, they bend notes, they stretch things out.
Yep, and that's what we like about it.
Next up was Full Power Blues, a D.C. blues band led by a woman named Mama Moon, who welcomed the crowd, saying, "Welcome to full moon music!"
And, just as Bam Bam had noted, she and the band testified, they bent notes, they stretched things out.
After they finished, a lone singer named Shep (who will apparently be performing at the Folk Fest this fall) came out to do "A Change is Gonna Come," making for one of the more moving parts of the evening.
In between sets, a DJ played music that defined the demographic of the crowd: "One Nation Under a Groove," "Super Freaky" and "Higher Ground." I know because I sit squarely in that demographic.
A guy came over and sat down near me, striking up a conversation by asking if I was having a good time. Sure was. While the Elegba Folklore Society's performance group played, sang and danced (its leader proclaiming, "If you can walk, you can dance!"), he went on to explain African drumming to me as each drum beat meaning a different word.
When I said I did know that much, he changed tactics. "Do you smoke weed?' he asked blithely despite the cops a few feet away. I guess since I already knew about African drumming, he just assumed I was cool that way, too.
Or maybe it was that I was still wearing sunglasses after dark. I'd tried taking them off, but the park was lit too brightly and the whole scene looked less tawdry with shades on.
What I'm saying is, no one needs to see a fryer lit up. "Someone left their phone at the funnel cake booth," Bam Bam announced between sets. "If you left your phone, go get it now!"
It wasn't me, so I headed down to the row of Porta-Johns, where I found an entirely different party going on. A row of motorcycles, many strung with LED lights, was holding court near the outdoor bathrooms and Prince was blaring from a boombox.
Clearly they didn't need any stinkin' live music.
As the stage was being prepped for DC go-go/funk band EU (Experience Unlimited for the uninitiated), Bam Bam came out and announced that activist Dick Gregory had "transitioned." I've never understood using euphemisms for death. The man died, so just say died.
A collective groan went up from the crowd.
The members of EU showed up onstage wearing all white and ready to party. Leader Sugar Bear began exhorting the crowd immediately. "Get up, Richmond! Y'all got to get up!" We did.
Weaving in classics such as "Family Affair," "Shake It Like a White Girl" and "It's Your Thing," the 7-piece band showed off their smooth choreography, still strong voices and vintage showmanship. Even better, they looked to be having a ball doing it.
When they got to their set closer and biggest hit, "Da Butt," you better believe we - young and old - were following Sugar Bear's directive to, "Shake what your Mama gave you!"
No regular at the Down Home Family Reunion has to be told that twice.
Saturday, August 19, 2017
Both Sides Now
Sometimes I let my enthusiasm get the best of me and I may come across as a bit odd.
With plans for dinner and a play, my date and I had just sat down at the bar at Amuse when I realized that next to us was a Jackson Ward neighbor. She immediately launched into praise for our alleys recently being cleared of all the leftover student debris and trash that had made our usually fine neighborhood look a little rundown at the heels lately.
Just as we were mulling who might've been responsible for the clean-up, I looked up to see Pru and company being led to a table nearby, so I went over to say hello. Everyone was in full-on Friday celebratory mode.
And since the trio was seated at a four-top, we saw no reason why a fifth couldn't be accommodated, so I was voted the one to take it up with the host.
Excitedly explaining to him that I was certain another chair could be added to the table, he asked which table my date and I wanted to glom on to. I pointed and continued to insist that one more chair wouldn't matter and how the table could easily fit five.
Looking at me with incredulity, the host asked, "Do they know you?"
Well, duh. Do I look like the kind of person who insinuates herself into the lives of strangers? Okay, of course I do, I am exactly that person, but in this case, I assured him, yes, I knew these people very well.
All of a sudden, our cozy dinner a deux was a round table dinner party for five (they were on the way to see the YSL exhibit), with views of the shades rolling up, down and up again as the photo-sensitive system tried to adjust for the rapidly-changing stormy skies outside.
A bottle of J. Mourat Rose was delivered and not long after, a second (Beau: Do we need another bottle? Me: Uh, yes Pru: Next time, don't ask, just order) as the conversation was derailed with a discussion of pigeon toes, knock knees and the problems of trying to vamp when you have both.
Not a good look and especially for a femme fatale.
Unable to narrow our preferences, my date and I shared two entrees - an earthy vegetable tajine and a special of exquisitely grilled New England cod with green beans and snap peas - so that we could taste both our food crushes. Beau was kind enough to share tastes of his shakshuka, even while wishing that there were more than two eggs on top of the eggplant and tomato stew.
"Or even just a few more yolks," he pined, not satisfied with the speed at which his arteries were closing. We helped that along with dessert, my choice of the salted chocolate bar being based on our server saying it was the darker of the two chocolate offerings but any fool knows I'd have eaten either one.
The skies opened up and torrent of rain began just as we asked for the check so we could make our curtain. Our server, who'd greeted me by name when we'd arrived, returned with two checks, her assumption being that I was alone as usual and not on a date.
Surprise! Sometimes I can dig up a date, especially these past few months. Now that everyone is firmly accustomed to me being solo all the time, I'm showing up as a couple all over the place. Who saw that coming?
We left our friends still finishing their desserts and dashed through the rain to the car, only to make it to Richmond Triangle Players' theater just as the pre-play announcements were being made.
Just this morning as I was out walking, I'd randomly run into the artistic director of a local theater company and in the course of chatting, told him which play I was seeing tonight. I could tell by his face that he had an opinion so I asked for it.
He thought the play, "The View Upstairs," had been unduly harsh on millennials and that while the acting and directing were strong, the story itself was not. He was also a millennial himself.
Naturally we two Baby Boomers wanted to decide for ourselves.
The premise was decidedly millennial, not a surprise given that the playwright was, too. A young Instagram-famous fashion designer buys an old building in New Orleans for a shop, only to go inside and encounter the occupants of the 1973-era gay club that once occupied the space.
And even if the program hadn't stated it was the early '70s, actor John Mincks' hairstyle, mustache and large-lensed glasses clearly stated the period. Ditto Luke Newsome's fitted, high-waisted jeans and Andrew Etheridge's fit and flare polyester bell bottoms.
The script was incredibly au courant - "Donald Trump is president, so anything is possible!" - even if the actors speaking it had to compete with the rolling thunder and pelting of rain on the theater's roof to be heard over it.
Where the script was brilliant, especially so for having been written by a guy born in 1988, was in its attempts at explaining the present reality to denizens of 1973.
You know, back when you'd judge if someone was cool or not with a few simple questions. Oscar Wilde or Arthur Miller? Sonny or Cher?
Puh-leeze.
It's tough to make dating apps and virtual reality sound appealing - because of course you'd want to see a picture of someone before you met them in real life, the better to decide if they were worth wasting your real life time on - to some of us (okay, me) today, so there's really no way to describe it to people with no frame of reference for our ceaseless connectivity married to a greater sense of unconnected humanity.
The two of us laughed a lot about the contrasts of a time we vaguely recall with the "improved" present, rife with loneliness, isolation and, too often, an absence of social and interaction skills. How must it feel when your self-esteem is based on "likes" from people you may or may not know?
We weren't the ones to ask.
But we were the ones to leave the theater and head directly to my balcony for an in-depth discussion of the play's themes set to alternate periods of hard rain and warm breezes while listening to Joni Mitchell's chronicle of a relationship, her 2000 album "Both Sides Now." Then, going down a rabbit hole about the album's arrangements and that certain kind of early '60s movie soundtracks.
Doing so didn't get us a single like from anyone, except each other.
Score.
With plans for dinner and a play, my date and I had just sat down at the bar at Amuse when I realized that next to us was a Jackson Ward neighbor. She immediately launched into praise for our alleys recently being cleared of all the leftover student debris and trash that had made our usually fine neighborhood look a little rundown at the heels lately.
Just as we were mulling who might've been responsible for the clean-up, I looked up to see Pru and company being led to a table nearby, so I went over to say hello. Everyone was in full-on Friday celebratory mode.
And since the trio was seated at a four-top, we saw no reason why a fifth couldn't be accommodated, so I was voted the one to take it up with the host.
Excitedly explaining to him that I was certain another chair could be added to the table, he asked which table my date and I wanted to glom on to. I pointed and continued to insist that one more chair wouldn't matter and how the table could easily fit five.
Looking at me with incredulity, the host asked, "Do they know you?"
Well, duh. Do I look like the kind of person who insinuates herself into the lives of strangers? Okay, of course I do, I am exactly that person, but in this case, I assured him, yes, I knew these people very well.
All of a sudden, our cozy dinner a deux was a round table dinner party for five (they were on the way to see the YSL exhibit), with views of the shades rolling up, down and up again as the photo-sensitive system tried to adjust for the rapidly-changing stormy skies outside.
A bottle of J. Mourat Rose was delivered and not long after, a second (Beau: Do we need another bottle? Me: Uh, yes Pru: Next time, don't ask, just order) as the conversation was derailed with a discussion of pigeon toes, knock knees and the problems of trying to vamp when you have both.
Not a good look and especially for a femme fatale.
Unable to narrow our preferences, my date and I shared two entrees - an earthy vegetable tajine and a special of exquisitely grilled New England cod with green beans and snap peas - so that we could taste both our food crushes. Beau was kind enough to share tastes of his shakshuka, even while wishing that there were more than two eggs on top of the eggplant and tomato stew.
"Or even just a few more yolks," he pined, not satisfied with the speed at which his arteries were closing. We helped that along with dessert, my choice of the salted chocolate bar being based on our server saying it was the darker of the two chocolate offerings but any fool knows I'd have eaten either one.
The skies opened up and torrent of rain began just as we asked for the check so we could make our curtain. Our server, who'd greeted me by name when we'd arrived, returned with two checks, her assumption being that I was alone as usual and not on a date.
Surprise! Sometimes I can dig up a date, especially these past few months. Now that everyone is firmly accustomed to me being solo all the time, I'm showing up as a couple all over the place. Who saw that coming?
We left our friends still finishing their desserts and dashed through the rain to the car, only to make it to Richmond Triangle Players' theater just as the pre-play announcements were being made.
Just this morning as I was out walking, I'd randomly run into the artistic director of a local theater company and in the course of chatting, told him which play I was seeing tonight. I could tell by his face that he had an opinion so I asked for it.
He thought the play, "The View Upstairs," had been unduly harsh on millennials and that while the acting and directing were strong, the story itself was not. He was also a millennial himself.
Naturally we two Baby Boomers wanted to decide for ourselves.
The premise was decidedly millennial, not a surprise given that the playwright was, too. A young Instagram-famous fashion designer buys an old building in New Orleans for a shop, only to go inside and encounter the occupants of the 1973-era gay club that once occupied the space.
And even if the program hadn't stated it was the early '70s, actor John Mincks' hairstyle, mustache and large-lensed glasses clearly stated the period. Ditto Luke Newsome's fitted, high-waisted jeans and Andrew Etheridge's fit and flare polyester bell bottoms.
The script was incredibly au courant - "Donald Trump is president, so anything is possible!" - even if the actors speaking it had to compete with the rolling thunder and pelting of rain on the theater's roof to be heard over it.
Where the script was brilliant, especially so for having been written by a guy born in 1988, was in its attempts at explaining the present reality to denizens of 1973.
You know, back when you'd judge if someone was cool or not with a few simple questions. Oscar Wilde or Arthur Miller? Sonny or Cher?
Puh-leeze.
It's tough to make dating apps and virtual reality sound appealing - because of course you'd want to see a picture of someone before you met them in real life, the better to decide if they were worth wasting your real life time on - to some of us (okay, me) today, so there's really no way to describe it to people with no frame of reference for our ceaseless connectivity married to a greater sense of unconnected humanity.
The two of us laughed a lot about the contrasts of a time we vaguely recall with the "improved" present, rife with loneliness, isolation and, too often, an absence of social and interaction skills. How must it feel when your self-esteem is based on "likes" from people you may or may not know?
We weren't the ones to ask.
But we were the ones to leave the theater and head directly to my balcony for an in-depth discussion of the play's themes set to alternate periods of hard rain and warm breezes while listening to Joni Mitchell's chronicle of a relationship, her 2000 album "Both Sides Now." Then, going down a rabbit hole about the album's arrangements and that certain kind of early '60s movie soundtracks.
Doing so didn't get us a single like from anyone, except each other.
Score.
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